Monkey King

by Patricia Chao

  My sister teased a bare brown foot out of its shoe and frowned at her fuchsia toenails. “How come they won’t let you talk to Ma?”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  “It seems weird to me. Ma is very, very upset, you know.”

  “You mean because she can’t call me?”

  “Well, that, and because she thinks it’s her fault that you’re in here.”

  Before I could respond to this Mel came into the dayroom. He was clowning around, dribbling an imaginary basketball. When he saw Marty he stopped cold and straightened up.

  “Howdy,” he said, too casual. I knew what he was thinking. It was what everyone thought when they first met Marty. That’s Sally’s sister?

  Marty barely gave him an appraisal. For the first time I realized how Mel would seem to my friends—there was no getting around his clipped, small-town accent, his slicked-back hair, the fact that he wore his jeans too tight. To give Mel credit, he summed up the situation right away.

  “Later,” he said, and went over to the TV armchairs, where Lillith was swathed in blankets. What I didn’t understand was, why was she always so cold if she thought she was on fire?

  “What’s wrong with that one?” Marty whispered to me. I knew she meant Lillith. I thought it was lucky that Pajama Man had been discharged.

  “She thinks she’s about to be burned at the stake.”

  “Christ. Isn’t there anywhere else we can talk?”

  I took her up to my bedroom. My sister plunked herself down on Rachel’s bed, kicking off her flats and taking the pillow out to settle it behind her head. “Sorry I didn’t bring you anything,” she said. “I thought about it. I thought you might need a joint, or a drink, or something.”

  “There’re enough drugs in here.”

  “Anything good?”

  “Nothing that I’m getting.”

  “I always thought Thorazine might be kind of cool.”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “You know we’re coming tomorrow night and everything. Me and Ma, I mean.”

  “For family therapy? No, they didn’t tell me. Well, that’s good, I guess.”

  “So what is this thing, anyway?”

  “Really, it’s no big deal, just talking. We all sit around in a little room and a mental health worker leads the discussion.”

  “What are we going to talk about?”

  “You know, stuff that happened when we were kids.”

  “Oh.” My sister closed her eyes.

  “Remember Monkey King?”

  My sister didn’t move a muscle. Her eyes were still shut.

  “Mar, did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes.” She sounded irritated. “Why do you have to bring that up again? He’s dead, for Chrissake. And you know it’s going to upset Ma.”

  “I think we should talk about it. Exactly what happened. How he used to come into our room at night. Don’t you remember?”

  “We had separate rooms, honey.”

  “You’re not paying attention. It was on Coram Drive. Don’t you remember? He’d come in and sit on my bed and we’d both wake up and he’d tell us not to make any noise.”

  My sister opened her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s over and done with.”

  “I bet you don’t even remember,” I said, to goad her. “You were only seven. You were just a baby.”

  “Of course I remember. Monkey King. Monkey King. Monkey King.” The way she said it made a thrill start at the base of my spine. “It’s no big deal, Sa. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve gone on with my life, you should go on with yours.”

  “We should have told Ma. Back when it happened, I mean.”

  “But we didn’t. So why bring it up now? I think she’s going bonkers, Sa, I swear, she’s the one who should be in here, not you.”

  “She knows anyway.”

  “No way.”

  “Remember when she took me to that faith healer in Chinatown? Remember, you were so jealous, when you found out about it you wanted to go too. She knew then. I think she and the faith healer even talked about it, only I’m sure they didn’t actually say the word ‘incest.’” I was talking too much, too fast.

  Marty was quiet for a moment. Then she said: “You just had dyslexia in school, or something.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mar, you have to help me out.”

  “I never understood why Daddy had a thing about you anyway.” Her voice was accusing. “You’re not even that pretty.”

  “You’re so fucked up,” I said. “Pretending it never happened.”

  “I’m fucked up? Who’s the one in the mental hospital?” Marty got up off the bed, shrugging back into that fancy suede jacket I was sure she hadn’t paid for, it was either shoplifted or a gift from some boyfriend. “I’m sorry I came back,” she said. “I was having a great time in France.”

  “I never asked you to come.”

  “I only came for Ma’s sake.”

  “So go back.”

  My sister dug around in her purse and pulled out her sunglasses. But before she put them on I saw how our conversation had changed her face.

  For the first time I saw our father in her.

  Mel and I stood by the window in the dayroom watching as the ambulance pulled up and the attendants jumped out and went to open the back doors. Lillith was at individual therapy, probably a good thing. She didn’t need this kind of shock. There was no stretcher this time. They whisked him into the building and then the fuss started in the foyer. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!” I heard the day nurse say.

  It took him a few minutes to get through the crowd. It was funny, but all the patients there were popular. Everyone had had a bizarre enough life to be a star—we who were shunned in the outside world for being peculiar.

  Finally Douglas walked through the doorway, the early afternoon light hitting him full on. He had put on even more weight, his bulk emphasized by the fact that his head looked smaller because he had no hair, just a kind of stubble. He was wearing a polo shirt—purple instead of the old green one, which probably had gotten ruined—and it was open at the neck, fully exposing the main scar. Since I’d been at Willowridge I’d seen a number of razor cuts, but none this fresh. It was puffy and violet colored, traveling in a curve under his chin like a nightcrawler.

  And there were other scars, too, that they hadn’t told us about. One on each temple, slightly less garish, shaped like parentheses. The skin on the rest of his face and the scalp showing through was a sickly grayish brown color.

  “Hey, buddy,” said Mel, too casually I thought. “Those are some tattoos.”

  “Welcome back,” I said.

  Douglas ignored us both. He went over to the TV, turned it on, and then sat down, calf crossed over the opposite knee. His trouser leg was pulled up to expose a bare, raw-looking ankle. Then he burped. Long and juicy. In character, for sure. But there was a difference from the way he’d been before. He didn’t check to see anyone’s reaction. He was beyond arrogance, I saw.

  He was utterly bored.

  That night it finally came down: Lillith was going to be transferred to State.

  I skipped breakfast to hang around and say good-bye. She had my old Status One room, the single next to the nurses’ station.

  “It’s too bad your uncle couldn’t give you one more chance.”

  Cross-legged on her bed, she seemed not to have heard. Her hair was down, uncombed, as it had been when we’d first met. She stared straight ahead, her jaw working subtly.

  “Is she going to throw up?” I asked the MH who was helping her pack. More like packing for her, since Lillith herself showed no interest in the process.

  “Drug tremor,” the MH told me. She set Lillith’s black-and-white-tweed suitcase on the bed and unzipped it. “Sally, would you take out the things hanging in the closet while I check through these drawers.”

  Feeling like I was invading Lillith’s privacy, I slid back the closet door. There wasn’t much in there—s
neakers, a smocked corduroy dress that would have been more appropriate for a twelve-year-old, several pairs of jeans. Also a stack of Glamours.I wondered where the string bikini she’d been working on was and then remembered that of course it would have been confiscated because yarn was zhi and the crochet needle was a sharp.

  As we filled the suitcase I asked the MH: “Is there a patient phone at State? Can I get in touch with her?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “She’s going to die, isn’t she,” I said. My voice was matter-of-fact.

  “We’re all going to die, Sally. We’ve talked to the nursing team there. She’ll be in medical first, until she gains some weight. The first thing they’re going to do is put her on a glucose I.V.”

  Someone shouted from the nurses’ station that the MH had a phone call. “Keep an eye on her,” the MH said to me. “And keep packing. Her uncle’s going to be here in ten minutes.”

  “Look,” I said to Lillith. She didn’t move. I picked up the clay food sculptures from the top of her bureau, the hot dog and the ice cream sundae. “I’m packing these for you, okay? In case you decide to start eating again.” I tucked the sculptures into corners of the suitcase, cushioning them with balled-up socks.

  There was something under the bed, some dark baby-size shape. I reached down, slowly, so as not to alarm her, and carefully extracted it.

  Rachel’s teddy bear.

  Although she’d grown attached to her rabbit, Rachel still mourned for the bear now and then. The poor thing looked even more chewed up than I remembered, perhaps she wouldn’t even want it anymore. But really, it was hers.

  Lillith was still sitting bolt upright, as if she were meditating. God knows what was going on behind those eyes. Was she still Saint Joan, tied to the stake? She turned her skull head, ever so slightly, caught sight of the stuffed animal in my arms. And did nothing. Just waited, to see what I would do.

  I blew some of the dust off, ruffled up the honey-colored fur, which smelled slightly moldy, and then leaned to tuck the bear inside the suitcase. It just about fit.

  When I looked back at Lillith her eyes were closed.

  Before family therapy, when people had just begun to gather in the dayroom, I went into the kitchenette and made myself a cup of chamomile tea. I looked up and saw Mel lounging in the doorway, watching me. There was a hair sticking up at the back of his head like an exclamation point. I wanted to smooth it down but didn’t quite dare.

  “Want some?”

  He leaned over my arm to sniff the mug. “What the hell is it?”

  “It’s supposed to calm you down.”

  “Maybe I could have a sip.”

  I tore open a packet of honey and watched the gold strands swirl like clouds through the lighter gold of the tea. “Did you know that melmeans honey in Greek?” I didn’t know if this were true or not, but it sounded right.

  “You know Greek?”

  “Not really. So what did you think of my sister?”

  “Cute,” he said in an offhand way.

  “Not beautiful?”

  Mel shrugged his shoulders, a connoisseur. “You built her up so much in group I expected this bombshell. Truth is, she can’t hold a candle to you.” He reached around me and picked up the mug, which he balanced on my shoulder.

  “Ouch, that’s hot,” I said.

  “Sorry,” he said, lifting it off. Sipping, he said, “Tastes like dandelions. She’s not as pretty as she thinks she is. You, on the other hand, don’t give yourself enough credit. Still nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Go get ‘em, Tiger.” He gave me a rakish smile, the one I’d seen him use on his rabbit-coated girlfriend. “So, we gonna see each other on the outside?”

  “You mean, like regular friends?”

  “I’m asking you if you want to see me on the outside.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Pul-leeze, Miss Wang,” he said. “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “I mean, yes, of course.”

  “You dummy. Don’t you know how much I’m going to miss you?” His face was so close to mine I thought he was going to kiss me, but then he just handed back the mug and turned and walked out of the kitchenette. For the first time I noticed that his calves were slightly bowed, like a cowboy’s.

  This was it, the moment I’d been dreading.

  “Sally has something in particular she’d like to share.” The MH was smooth, using a casual tone so as not to alarm anyone. Not that this place didn’t give Ma the creeps anyway. Like last time, she was wearing her school clothes—a blue cotton blouse and brown linen skirt with a kick pleat in the front. I watched her smooth a tiny crease over her belly. Her hands were so like Marty’s, only paler and plumper.

  My sister was wearing wide white pants, like a sailor’s, and a red-and-white-striped T-shirt. I could see her looking around furtively for an ashtray. When she didn’t find one, she looked peevish and began swinging one leg over the other. She twisted the cameo ring on her right hand.

  “Go ahead,” the MH commanded me.

  I did. I think I used the word molest.

  “Do we all understand what Sally means?” the MH asked. “Mrs. Wang?”

  My mother had no expression on her face. It was as if I’d said nothing at all. I noticed that the roots of her hair, which she dyed, were a copper color, instead of the white you would have expected.

  The MH leaned forward in his chair. “We’re talking, of course, about sexual molestation. We need you to help fill in the picture.”

  Ma finally spoke up. “There is no such thing in our family.”

  “Are you sure, Mrs. Wang?”

  “I don’t know where she got the idea. Maybe from all the books she reads.”

  It was strange, but all I felt was relief.

  “Yes, she makes this up, she has a big imagination. Both my daughters have big imaginations.” My mother’s face remained perfectly bland, as if she were giving out a recipe.

  “All right,” the MH said. “And what about you, Marty? What do you think?”

  “She is an actress.” My mother was smiling. “She doesn’t know.”

  It struck me that Marty was right, Ma had gone insane.

  My sister said: “Well, he did hit us, I’m sure Sally’s told you about that. Actually, me more than her. I talked back a lot.”

  “And?” the MH asked, encouraging.

  Marty leaned back in the molded plastic hospital chair, arms crossed over her chest, and shook her head. I wished for once I could see into her brain, past the smooth brown diamond face, the almond eyes that had grown double lids, to my mother’s delight. She wouldn’t look at me. “He gave me a black eye once. The first time he caught me shoplifting.” I hadn’t remembered about the black eye, but of course it was true. We told everyone she’d fallen off the swings.

  “It seems we have a difference in perspective here,” the MH said.

  I was watching my mother. She was fidgeting quite a bit, with her skirt, the flap on her purse. At one point she took out a wad of Kleenex and blew her nose.

  “Monkey King.” My sister was sitting too far away to kick, so I glared at her as I said it.

  “What’s Monkey King?” the MH wanted to know.

  “Just a story,” Marty told him. “A Chinese folk tale.” I noticed with interest that she was digging the nails of one hand into the palm of the other.

  “My husband was a good father,” Ma said. “Sal-lee was his favorite. He never hurt her.”

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” I asked Ma. “Why are you still protecting him?”

  “He was a good father,” she repeated. “Look what he sacrificed for you.”

  That word again. “What? What did he sacrifice?”

  “Work so hard to pay for your education. Then what happens. No-good daughter. You disappoint him so much, he can’t say.”

  “I think ‘no-good’ is a loaded word, perhaps we could—”

  Ma went on as if the MH
hadn’t spoken. “Children supposed to give you peace in old age. Your daddy was never peaceful. He talked this all the time, maybe he’s better off back in China, shouldn’t have come to the United States at all. Never have children.”

  “Why do you hate me so much?”

  “Love, hate, this is so American. You say I love you, what does this mean? Action is important, not words.”

  “Listen, we’re getting off the topic,” the MH said. He was practically shouting. “Obviously there’s a lot to be worked out here. Let’s go back to Sally’s original statement about her abuse memories.”

  “She knew about it.” I pointed at Marty. “Your precious Mau-mau was in the same room and never said a word.”

  My mother clammed up, making her mouth into a line. I knew, if the MH didn’t, that this was absolute. I’d seen her do it too many times in childhood. It scared me worse than anything, than her yelling, than Daddy yelling, even.

  “I don’t think incest is the point,” my sister said. “We’re never going to agree on it, so why bother talking about it?”

  I wondered if she and my mother had discussed strategy. It seemed possible.

  Afterward I walked them to the front door. As soon as the MH was out of earshot, Ma gripped my upper arm so hard I almost screamed. “Your father is dead,” she hissed. “He is an ancestor. You must have respect for your ancestors.”

  “She’s been in this place for too long,” Marty said. “I told you, Ma, it’s all these crazy people, they’re a bad influence.” She turned to me making big eyes and I felt like saying, I’m not one of your gullible white boyfriends, this act doesn’t work on me. “Honey, there’s no use brooding about the past. You just have to pick up and go on. Lots of people have breakdowns. It makes them stronger. Like a bone that’s been healed.”

  “Your sister’s right.” Ma let go of me and smoothed her hair back with one hand. “And now the insurance is running out. You think about that, Sally. You discuss that with your smart psychiatrist.”

  “You know I’m not staying in here,” I said. “You know I’m going to St. Pete.”

  “I could call and tell them not let you come,” Ma said.

  From the front door I watched the two of them proceed down the flagstones. I could tell they were arguing about where they had parked the car.