Bitter Melon (8 page)

On the dashboard is an open ashtray with two cigarette butts inside. Ms. Taylor smokes! How scandalous! I guess I’ve smelled it all along, but the scent didn’t register. I imagine Ms. Taylor and me driving along the Great Highway next to Ocean Beach, each of us with a cigarette in hand, talking and laughing like old friends. Or better yet, Ms. Taylor and me sitting in a café, each with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, talking and laughing.

Ms. Taylor quickly closes the ashtray. “I’m setting a bad example,” she says. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“No.” For the first time, I wish I did.

“Good. Don’t start. I hate to be a hypocrite, but it’s an impossible habit to break.”

“Yeah. I know.” Actually, I don’t, but that sounded cool.

As Ms. Taylor drives down Turk Street past the University of San Francisco, I notice the rumbling and bouncing of the seat, the jerky back-and-forth motion of the car as Ms. Taylor shifts gears.

“Don’t worry about the stage fright,” Ms. Taylor says. “You’ll
always get the jitters, but you’ll manage it better with practice.”

Stage fright. She talks about it like it’s something every public speaker has. Even if that’s true, I doubt that every speaker has a mother breathing down her neck. Fortunately, we perfect and perform the same speech throughout the school year. If I had to reinvent my speech for each competition and overcome stage fright all year long, I would probably have a nervous breakdown.

As if reading my mind, Ms. Taylor asks, “Has your mother read your speech?”

“No.”

“You really should share it with her. I bet she’d be proud. Parents aren’t allowed to attend competitions in the state circuit, but maybe we can find another tournament for her to attend.”

I force a pleasant smile.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Ms. Taylor says.

I tense at the request. “Sure.”

“Is it ever too much pressure for you, living up to your mother’s expectations?”

“No. I mean, I never thought about it before.”

“Really? I mean, your decision to become a doctor, did your mom say, ‘Frances, I want you to become a doctor,’ or did you decide that on your own?”

“She feels that it would be the best thing for me,” I say.

“Have you ever not wanted to become a doctor?” Ms. Taylor asks. “Or have you ever secretly wanted to do something else?”

“I never really thought about it,” I say.

Ms. Taylor shrugs. “Okay. When I suggested volunteering at
a hospital on the first day of class, I really meant it. Just getting into med school requires tons of premed prerequisites during undergrad. Then it’s another four to five years of med school, followed by another few years of residency. Volunteering in a hospital or working part-time in a doctor’s office will either steer you elsewhere, or it will strengthen your resolve and help you through the hard times.”

Ms. Costello has gone over this with me already. But hearing it from Ms. Taylor feels like a sinking stone in my chest. By the time I become a doctor, I’ll be … thirty? I’ll be over the hill by then. The thought of having to work as hard as I do now, or even harder, for the next thirteen years of my life makes me not want to go to college at all.

“So, are you applying to other colleges besides Berkeley?” Ms. Taylor asks.

“San Francisco State, just in case I don’t get into Berkeley,” I reply.

“You ought to apply to all the UCs, just to expand your options,” Ms. Taylor says. “They’re all on one application, so all you have to do is check off the other schools.”

Only Berkeley is prestigious enough for Mom. It is also the only UC within commuter distance. I smile and nod, hoping that Ms. Taylor will change the subject.

“Have you ever thought about Scripps College?” Ms. Taylor says.

Because St. Elizabeth’s is a private all-girls high school, it invites recruiters from various private women’s colleges to speak
to us about their schools. Scripps is definitely a St. Elizabeth’s favorite, along with Mills, Smith, and Wellesley. “We can’t afford to go to Scripps,” I say.

“You could apply for scholarships and take out student loans. I did.”

“It’s too far away.”

“Far away is a great opportunity to develop your sense of identity and independence.”

A cold wave creeps through me. I sit on my hands to still their shaking.

“At first, I was really afraid to go away to college too, but I made new friends and started making my own decisions,” says Ms. Taylor. “Trust me, a women’s college is a very nurturing and empowering learning environment for a young woman. Actually, it was my experience at Scripps that inspired me to teach at an all-girls high school.”

Could college actually be fun, unlike grade school and high school?

“What was it like there?” I ask.

“Well, it’s a lot smaller than a UC or State, so it was more intimate,” says Ms. Taylor. “I felt like a person, not a number. I really got to know the professors, and a couple of them became my mentors. They were the ones who got me fired up about literature and language and teaching. Also, I met my closest friends there. Before college, I had friends to hang out with but no one I could call a kindred spirit. It wasn’t until college that I met people my age who got me. By the time I graduated, I had
this big feeling inside, like I had accomplished so much and could accomplish so much more.”

Wow. Currently, I have “friends” at school, people with whom I’m friendly, but I’ve never felt completely comfortable with them. Theresa is the only friend whose company I enjoy. Until now, I’ve perceived college as an extension of high school, only worse, with more students, more faculty, and more pressure. I imagine being at a college like Scripps, living among a community of Theresas, being taught by a whole faculty of Ms. Taylors. No one there would criticize me for my looks or for liking one thing and not another. I could pursue whatever inspired me. If such a college existed, I would go, not with head down, but with my arms wide open.

“Was your mom okay with your going away?” I ask.

“She was the one who suggested it in the first place,” Ms. Taylor says. “She wanted me to have a good education, spread my wings and fly. My first month in college, I cried every day and called home asking to drop out or transfer. But Mom encouraged me to stick it out one semester. By the end of the semester, I loved it. I just needed time to discover that I could do it on my own.”

“Wow. Your mom sounds pretty liberal.”

“That’s one way to look at it. You see, my dad was a real dud, and my mom realized that she didn’t want me to walk the same path that she had, so she really pushed me in a different direction. That’s what every mom wants for her kids, to do better than she had done. I’m sure your mom feels the same way.”

That’s exactly what my mom has said, yet her methods are so different from that of Ms. Taylor’s mom. I wonder if Ms. Taylor’s mom is one of a kind, or if there are other moms like her too.

“Where are you from originally?” I ask.

“North Carolina.”

“Really?” She doesn’t sound the least bit Southern. “Is it hard being away from your mom?”

“Not really. I mean, I miss her a lot, but we talk on the phone once a week, and I visit during holidays. In a way, distance doesn’t matter. When you’re close, distance can’t tear you apart. Likewise, if you’re not close, then living close by won’t bring you together. At any rate, consider Scripps. I think it will be a good match for you. Either way, let me know if you need a letter of recommendation.”

Suddenly, Ms. Taylor’s car starts to lose control. It swerves back and forth, unable to stay within the lane.

“What’s going on?” Ms. Taylor says as she grips the steering wheel.

I hear rumbling and crumbling sounds outside the car. Moments later, it is over. Ms. Taylor turns on the radio. A newscaster announces that there has been an earthquake.

Ms. Taylor swears under her breath. I’m too shaken to be shocked by her language. “Is your mom home?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I reply. As I stare at the houses along Balboa Street, I remind myself that all the homes in our area are still standing, even if their brick facades have fallen into piles on the ground. There are no fires or explosions. As long as our building is still
intact, my mother should be fine. But I can’t be completely sure. Suddenly, I’m gripped with the fear that our apartment has collapsed and my mother is crushed under the rubble. I picture her smashed body in a pool of blood, her arms, legs, and head angled in unnatural positions.

Finally, we arrive at my apartment. To my relief, it looks more or less the same, still three stories, windows intact. As Ms. Taylor pulls into the driveway, I notice a white piece of paper stuck to the metal gate. I get out of Ms. Taylor’s car and notice that my name is on the note. I open it. It is in Theresa’s careful script. It reads:

“What is it?” Ms. Taylor calls through her rolled-down window.

“My mom’s at Theresa’s house,” I say.

“Great. Let’s drive over.”

“No. You’ve spent too much time on me already.”

“I’ve spent an extra couple of hours. What’s another few minutes?”

“Um, I need to walk. It’s only a couple blocks.”

“If something falls on you along the way, I’m going to feel responsible.”

“You’re not responsible,” I insist. “I need the air. To clear my head. It’s just a couple of blocks. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

I nod and start walking away.

Ms. Taylor drives alongside me. I wish she would just drive away. I am nervous that Mom or Nellie will notice her from Nellie’s front window. Ms. Taylor doesn’t pull away until I reach Theresa’s home. Before I can ring the doorbell, Auntie Nellie opens the door.

“Wah! Fei Ting! We’ve been so worried!”

Moments later, Theresa and Mom are hobbling down the stairs. Theresa is propping Mom up as she descends the steep, pink-carpeted steps. Mom is hunched over, clutching her abdomen. Once she reaches the foot of the stairs, she grabs my arms and weeps.

Then Nellie starts pushing us inside. “Don’t stay outside! It’s dangerous!” Even when Nellie is calm, she sounds like she is shouting. Now that she’s excited, my ears are ringing. Theresa and Nellie take Mom by the arms and help her up the curving stairs. I follow closely. Once we’re upstairs, Theresa and Nellie help Mom settle down at the dining table. I remain standing, unable to endure the luxury of sitting. To my surprise, the floors are clean. The only way I can tell that an earthquake has passed is by the open kitchen cabinets, which are half full. The rest of the dishes and bowls must have fallen and broken and been cleared away.

Nellie says, “Let’s make tea.”

“You can’t use the gas stove, Mom,” Theresa says.

“Oh.” Then Nellie begins flipping the light switches on and off. “Hey! The lights don’t work.”

“The electricity’s out,” Theresa says.

“Oh. Then go find some candles.”

“We can’t use candles.”

“Why not?”

“Because if there’s gas in the room, they might cause an explosion.”

“Then what do we use? It’s getting dark!”

“Flashlights.” Theresa’s talking to her mother as if explaining things to a five-year-old.

Theresa leaves the room for a while. Meanwhile, Nellie finds a flashlight and begins flicking the on-off switch back and forth. “Hey, how can the earthquake affect this too?” she says.

Theresa comes back with new batteries. She takes the flashlight from Nellie, changes the batteries, and turns on the flashlight. It seems that without Theresa, Nellie could not survive in this world. I imagine myself in Theresa’s shoes. I wouldn’t have known not to turn on the stove. I probably would have lit a candle and blown my mom and me up.

“Look how smart Theresa is,” Mom says. “She’s really worth the rice you feed her.”

“When the earth was shaking, I was so scared, I just started running around the room screaming,” Nellie says. “Then Theresa grabbed me and pushed me under the dining table. Good thing too, because I probably would have gotten hurt from all the flying dishes.”

Mom is probably wishing she and Nellie could trade daughters. And who could blame her? Theresa was there for Nellie
during the quake. She was there for Mom when she needed comfort and protection. Where was I? Practicing for a speech competition behind my mother’s back.

“Where did you go after school today?” Mom says to me.

“Princeton Review. Remember?” I try to spy Theresa from the corner of my eye, but she is looking at her lap.

“How come you weren’t there when everyone else was leaving?” Mom says.

How did she know that I wasn’t there?

“I tried to call Princeton Review, but the phone didn’t work,” Mom says. “Then I ran to Nellie’s house, even as the ground was shaking, in case you were there, but you weren’t. Then I made Nellie drive me and Theresa to Princeton Review. We waited outside the building and looked for you as everyone else left, but you weren’t there. Nellie and I began asking the kids if they knew where you were, but no one did. Then, I found your teacher.”

I stifle the urge to gasp.

“I asked him where you were. He said something like ‘She’s not with you?’ ”

Had Mr. Engelman said, “Frances wasn’t here today,” I would have been caught for sure. How much longer before my luck runs out? Maybe I should just surrender the truth and get my punishment over with.

“My heart nearly fell into my bowels,” Mom says. “Then Theresa said that maybe you had left and were on your way home. Then I told Nellie to drive me home to find you, but
Theresa told me to stay at her house. She offered to walk to our apartment, risking her own life, to wait for you and bring you back. But Nellie and I were too scared for her, so she said she would leave you a note and come right back.”

I picture Theresa sitting nervously in the backseat of Nellie’s car, scared of what would happen once Mom and Nellie discovered that I wasn’t at Princeton Review. She probably nearly peed in her pants when they ran into the teacher. It would have been so easy for her at that moment to give up and drop our charade. I watch Theresa from the corner of my eye. She is still looking at her lap.