by Lori Saltis
The driver exits the freeway and navigates the canyons created by the skyscrapers of the financial district. He turns left on California Street and heads uphill into Chinatown. We get stuck behind a slow-moving cable car. Its driver is clanging the bell with a crazed urgency, like the zombie apocalypse is upon us. At least it shuts down Aaron and he puts away his instrument of torture.
The van winds through the congested streets, passing sidewalks packed with shoppers ducking in and out of the vegetable stands, fish stalls and butcher shops, until the driver turns into a narrow, dead-end street officially known as Joseph Alley. Though for more than a century the Chinese have called it Dragon Alley. We come to a stop at the end of the alley in front of a three-story building with dark green ceramic awnings that resemble bamboo. Above the entrance is a white marble plaque inlaid with gold characters proclaiming this to be the location of the Two Dragon Clan Kongsi. A kongsi is a clan meeting hall for overseas Chinese.
Our clan bought the building while it was being constructed, right after the 1906 earthquake. They made sure the top floor had an unobstructed view of the San Francisco Bay, since facing water is supposed to be super good luck. The Dragon Son and his family moved in because of all the wars and political stuff going on in China back then. It was supposed to be temporary, but after the next generation was born in the U.S., it became a permanent thing. I’m glad. Spending every summer at the compound is enough. Living there year-round with Head Elder would be a real pain.
The front door opens and a guard hurries down the stairs to help the driver with our luggage. The lobby is dimly lit and empty, except for the reception area where the guards monitor the alley using video surveillance. My parents supposedly run a kwoon, a martial arts studio, in the building, though anyone interested in taking classes will be told they’re not accepting new students at this time. Plenty of training takes place in the huge gym in the basement, but the students are all members of the Two Dragon Clan. The kongsi’s banquet hall occupies the ground floor and is members only, of course.
Back when the place was built, the Hong Kong style of floor numbering had been used, meaning the ground floor is what Americans call the first floor. Our first floor is what Americans call the second floor, and so on. This is only important because the Dragon Son’s family always occupies the third floor. For Chinese, three is a lucky number, but four is super bad luck. So, according to the American system, we live on the unlucky floor. Once that was realized, there was talk of moving to the second floor, but that would mean sacrificing the good feng shui and great view on the top floor. It was finally decided that anything Chinese trumped anything American, so the Dragon Son’s family remained on the “third” floor.
The first floor has offices and guest rooms. The second floor is where the Dragon Son’s adult heir is supposed to live, but after Dad became Dragon Son, his brother’s family settled there. I guess I’m supposed to kick them out when I get married. I wouldn’t mind if Tony and Aaron stayed, except for one thing.
Right on cue, the elevator makes a dinging sound. The door slides open and out steps that one thing: Uncle George’s wife, Auntie Sylvia. She’s wearing a dress, same as always. Well, sometimes she wears a skirt. I’ve never seen her in pants or a pair of shorts. I guess she’s supposed to be fashionable with her poofy, reddish-brown hair, manicured nails, high heels and piles of expensive clothes, but who is she trying to impress? I don’t know what she does all day. She doesn’t teach martial arts like Mom or have any kind of job. A maid does all the cleaning and dinner is delivered every night. She doesn’t even check Aaron’s homework. I’m the one who does that.
Aunt Sylvia’s diamond hard eyes soften as they fix on Tony. She dashes out of the elevator and wraps her arms around his neck. “Son. At last you’re home. You don’t know how much I missed you.” She kisses his cheek, leaving a red lipstick mark.
“Hello, Mother.” Tony looks embarrassed.
I don’t blame him. Hey, lady, he’s your son, not your husband. Also, Auntie Sylvia has this smell, like she’s been hit by a florist’s truck carrying a million roses. It gags me. I’m glad Mom smells like Mom, all normal and wholesome.
Auntie Sylvia makes a high-pitched miffed sound. “Is that all you have to say after three months? ‘Hello, Mother’? I want to hear everything, all about your time at the compound.” She takes his arm and starts leading him into the elevator.
Tony tugs away. “Don’t you want to say hello to everyone else?”
Another miffed sound. The diamond hardness returns to her eyes as she looks at me. “Nephew.”
“Auntie.” The word tastes like sand.
She holds out an arm for Aaron. “Welcome home, son. Did you miss me?”
Aaron blinks, as if he forgot she’s his mother. He goes to her and doesn’t reciprocate her one-armed hug.
“Look at you. You’re so skinny. Didn’t anyone feed you?” She herds her sons into the elevator without a backward glance.
Mom crosses her arms and shakes her head. I don’t know what the bad blood is between her and Auntie Sylvia because, of course, no one will tell me. I don’t remember a time when they’ve ever been friendly beyond having to exchange a few necessary words. Auntie Sylvia has always avoided Mom, but lately she’s been ignoring her, like she doesn’t exist. Mom acts like she doesn’t care, but it steams the hell out of me.
“What a bitch,” I mutter.
“What was that?” asks Mom.
I shrug. I don’t care if I’m in trouble for speaking the truth.
After a moment, Mom sighs and shrugs, too. Must be the jet lag. And the fact she agrees with me.
The guards arrive in the lobby, carrying our luggage. Mom presses the up button on the wall and turns to them with a smile. “Please, take the elevator. Drop off my nephews’ luggage first. We’ll take the stairs. We need to stretch our legs after that long flight.” She waves away their protests.
This is why everyone loves my mom. She’s Head Elder’s daughter and the Dragon Son’s wife, but she treats everyone the same. The elevator is small, about the size of a coat closet. With the luggage, we can’t all fit in. Auntie Sylvia would’ve made those guys haul our crap up the stairs while she took the elevator. She’ll probably see red when they arrive, thinking Mom did it to make her look bad. Actually, maybe Mom had. Her smile stays on her lips as we head upstairs.
When I get to the second landing, I notice Mom is lagging behind, so I wait for her to catch up. It’s not like her to get winded climbing stairs. Is her heart bothering her? She doesn’t look pale or unwell. Just tired.
As we continue up to the third floor, I ask, “Are you going to call Dad?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
“He’s expecting me to call at midnight, Hong Kong time.” Mom pulls out her phone and glances at the screen. “In about half an hour.”
“Shouldn’t you call him now?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Why wait?”
Mom gives me a look, the one that says I’m not getting anywhere so I might as well shut up. But this is important. We need to call Dad now. Can’t she see that? I stomp up the rest of the stairs and lean against the wall with my arms crossed. I gnaw my lip, but can’t hold back a huge yawn.
Mom brushes my bangs off my forehead. I jerk away. She sighs. “Your father is in a meeting right now and can’t be disturbed.”
“A meeting? With who?” Uncle George? Head Elder? Both?
“I can’t talk about it.”
“Not even with me?”
“Go to your room and get some rest. I need to talk to your father in private first. After that, you can talk to him all you want. I promise.”
I know I’m acting like a kid, but she’s treating me like one. “Okay, whatever.”
I tug off my sneakers and place them on the shoe rack before heading down the hall. Then I stop and look back. Mom holds her shoes in one hand, but instead of placing them on the shelf, she stands there, watc
hing me. Though her face is pinched and weary, love radiates from her dark brown eyes. A tiny ache stabs my chest. If I was eight-years-old, I’d run to her for a hug. Instead, I shrug and manage a goofy grin. Her smile brightens her face before she turns away to set down her shoes.
Right after I get to my room, the guards arrive with two suitcases full of crap that needs to be unpacked. Instead, I flop back on my bed. It feels weird being in my room again. There aren’t any geckos on the ceiling. It’s cold and dry compared to the heat and humidity of Hong Kong. In a couple of days, I’ll be back in school, back to being a normal kid. I still have a ton of schoolwork to catch up with. Ugh. I don’t want to think about that. My head feels fuzzy and sticky, like it’s full of cotton candy. My eyelids droop, flutter and shut. Just for a few moments…
When I open my eyes, my cheek is sticky with drool. I wipe the slime from my mouth and glance at the clock on the nightstand. Ah, crap. I’ve been out for almost an hour. I don’t feel any better for it. I want to turn over my pillow and go back to sleep, but I get this panicky feeling in my stomach. What if Mom came in and saw I was asleep, and decided not to wake me so I could talk to Dad? No, she wouldn’t do that. I perch on the edge of the bed. They must still be talking. It wouldn’t hurt to find out and if I’m quiet, I might overhear something.
Yeah, you’d think I’d know better by now. Thing is, if I don’t snoop, I stay ignorant and frustrated, and I’m sick of that.
With Silent Steps, I head for my parents’ room. The door is cracked open, which is weird. I thought their conversation would be private. You can’t do Silent Speech over the phone. I stand at the doorway and listen. Mom isn’t talking. Is she even in there? I smell a familiar stench. Roses. I peer through the crack.
What the hell?
I can see Mom’s legs on the bed, twisted at a weird angle. Did she fall asleep, like me? I open the door a bit more. Auntie Sylvia is leaning over Mom, her back blocking my view. Then she twists aside and tosses away a pillow covering Mom’s face. She leans over again and seems to grab hold of something around Mom’s neck.
“What are you doing?” I yelled.
Auntie Sylvia jumps up, her pale face now bright red. Her hands go behind her back. “Paul – your mother. There seems to be something wrong with her. I just tried to wake her up.”
I shove her aside and lean over my mother. Mom stares at the ceiling with blank eyes. She isn’t breathing – No! She has to be breathing.
I give her a shake. “Mom. Mom, wake up.”
She doesn’t move. I put my hand to her mouth. No breath. My fingers slide to her neck. No pulse.
No. No! I turn to my aunt. “Call 911!”
Aunt Sylvia’s diamond eyes became slits. “We can’t allow outsiders into the kongsi.”
I stare at her for an incredulous moment. Then I look around and see Mom’s phone on the bed near her hand. I grab it and punch in 911.
Auntie Sylvia runs from the room, her hands clutched before her as if holding something.
“911,” says a calm, female voice. “What is your emergency?”
My mouth goes bone dry. I swallow hard and the words tumble out. “My mom – my mom. She’s sick. She’s not breathing. She needs help. We live at 88 Joseph Alley.”
The dispatcher says something as I drop the phone. My heart is beating so fast, I’m getting dizzy. I take a deep breath. I have to calm down. I have to do this. Whatever it was I did to that stupid doll in CPR class.
I tilt back Mom’s head and breathe into her mouth, twice. Her chest rises and falls. That’s a good sign, right? I pump Mom’s chest, 30 times. I press my ear to her mouth to listen for breath, but I can’t hear anything over all the noise in the hall.
Tony bursts into the room. “Is she breathing?”
I shake my head.
He pushes me aside. Then he closes his eyes and inhales. As he exhales, he lays his hand over Mom’s heart, infusing her with his chi. Moments pass. Drops trickle down his cheeks, but it isn’t sweat. His hair is wet. He grows paler. Mom doesn’t move.
“Shit,” he whispers.
Tony never swears.
He breathes into Mom’s mouth. Again, her chest rises and falls, but she’s obviously not breathing on her own.
A tinny voice comes from the phone. I snatch it up. “Are they coming?”
“Yes,” says the dispatcher. “Please stay on the line.”
“Tell them to hurry. She’s not breathing.”
“What is your name?”
“Paul. Paul Lau.”
“All right, Paul. Paramedics are on their way and should be there any moment.” She pauses. “How old are you, Paul?”
What the hell does that matter? “Fifteen.”
“Has your mother been sick before?”
God. Please. No. I swallow. “She has a heart condition.”
“All right. I’ll let the paramedics know. Are you alone, Paul?”
“No, my cousin is here. He’s doing CPR.”
“Is your mother responding?”
Tony draws away. The look on his face…
“No.” The word comes out like a croak. I lean against the wall to keep from falling. My hand drops to my side. The wail of a siren comes through an open window.
Footsteps pound on the stairs. In the hallway, I hear Auntie Sylvia’s voice calling out, “In here, in here!”
Paramedics come rushing in. They brush Tony aside and lean over Mom. One begins administering CPR. Tony leans beside me. He looks at me. His mouth opens and closes. He looks away.
A numbing veil drops over me. Through it, I watch two firemen enter the room, carrying some kind of machine. One of them says something to Tony and me. Tony puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me out of the room.
The hallway feels like the bottom of a well. Above, a voice repeats several times, “Clear.” A buzzing noise follows. I realize I’m still clutching the phone and shove it in my pocket.
At some point, the firemen carry the machine out of the room. They don’t look at me. One of the paramedics gestures Tony over and says something. Both look at me. I pull myself from the wall and go to them. The paramedic takes a few steps back.
Tony speaks in a soft voice, “They couldn’t save her. I’m sorry.”
I blink. I know that means Mom is dead, but it doesn’t make sense. Mom can’t be dead.
“You should say goodbye before they take her away.”
“Away?” Why would they take Mom away? I go into the room. Mom’s suitcases had been pushed into a corner. The stuff on her nightstand had been shoved aside. I straighten a tilted lampshade before I sit beside her.
Her eyes are closed. I touch her hand. She feels cold. I reach for a blanket to cover her. Then I notice the pillow. Auntie Sylvia had been holding that pillow. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember what I saw: Auntie Sylvia lifting the pillow and tossing it aside. Lifting it off of Mom’s face…
What had Auntie Sylvia done?
My stomach churns. Nausea clutches my throat. I grasp Mom’s hand. I go over in my mind what I’d seen, over and over again.
A paramedic comes in and speaks to me, but I can’t hear what he says. Tony comes and goes. I ignore him.
Auntie Cat appears beside me like a ghost, wearing a white, silk martial arts uniform, with baggy pants and flowing sleeves. Strands of black hair escape from her bun and drift around a feminine version of Dad’s face. She must have been teaching a Tai Chi class when she heard about… I take a breath that hurts my throat.
“Oh, God. Chelle. It’s all too much,” she mutters. She wipes the tears from her cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. Then she reaches down and squeezes Mom’s hand. The tears return. She wipes her face again. After taking a deep breath, she turns to me, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder. “We have to go now, Paul.”
I stand. I’ve been as tall her since I turned fifteen, but I feel like a small child beside her. I allow her to lead me out of the room.
In the hall, the paramedics wait w
ith a stretcher. On its surface is a long black bag with a zipper down the middle. I gasp. No. No, they aren’t going to put Mom in that. I stumble backward. Auntie Cat tightens her grip to keep me from falling. I shake her off and run to my room.
Auntie Cat follows me. She closes the door, but through it I can still hear the shuffling sounds as the paramedics move my mother’s body. My knees give way and I sink onto the bed. Auntie Cat sits beside me. She wraps her arm around me and rubs my forearm. A long, sharp zipping sound scratches my nerves.
Auntie Cat bites her lip. She blinks and tears roll down her cheeks. I’ve never seen her cry before, had never even imagined that she would. She always seems so calm and in control.
The veil slides off me. This is real. Mom is dead. I can’t just sit here. I have to let Dad know. My stomach twists at the thought. How are we going to live without her? I reach into my pocket and pull out Mom’s phone. My eyes narrow at the recent calls list on her screen: one to Dad, but it had lasted less than a minute. Then Head Elder had called her immediately after that. Had Mom even talked to Dad? Or had they started talking, and then Mom ended their conversation to take her father’s call? What had Head Elder said to Mom? Something to upset her? I press Dad’s number and put the phone to my ear.
“Who are you calling?” asks Auntie Cat.
“My dad.” I frown as the call goes directly voicemail.
“Michael Lau,” Dad’s voice is followed by a mechanized female voice, “is not available to take your call.”
