by Various
“I can’t marry you.” The indignation in her voice stops both of them. They face each other in the middle of the sidewalk, a pedestrian cursing at the obstacle. Damn white ghost.
S.’s face is a mask of goodwill. “So, really, you want to be a good Chinese girl. That’s okay.” He forces a smile, forces himself up. “I knew that about you.”
She tries to be cute, rubs a finger on his forehead. “Let’s see, under all this white, maybe you’re really a nice Cantonese boy?” But the joke is too weak to make either of them feel better.
On the day of Baby’s full-month party, Mei wakes with a sore chest. She takes off her nightshirt in the bathroom and checks her profile in the mirror. It is amazing to think of herself as pregnant. There is nothing different about her soft skin, her smooth stomach. Except her breasts feel different. They are stiff and sensitive in the hand. Mei imagines them swelling with milk, like water balloons, nature’s prank on unsuspecting mothers. Mei decides not to consult the literature from Family Planning hidden under her mattress. She walks into the living room to look for her cigarettes.
Her roommate, Ching, is sitting on the couch in a long T-shirt and eating a bowl of ramen noodles. She has the Styrofoam bowl balanced on her bare knees, lifting it occasionally for a slurp of soup. The smell of salty broth fills the tight space, making Mei’s empty stomach turn.
“Afternoon, bed-head,” Ching says. “No work today?”
“I couldn’t open my eyes.”
“Romeo called for you. You are so lucky. I need love.” Ching flicks a lock of burgundy-dyed hair out of her soup and gives a dramatic sniff. “I’m going to be alone forever. Not like you and Prince Charming.”
Mei chews the unlit cigarette in her mouth and notices she doesn’t want to smoke. In fact, the thought of smoking right then makes her gag. “You think he’s a prince?” she asks. She tries to sound bored, keep the hope out of her voice.
“Of course,” Ching says. “He’s cute, he’s got a good job, he adores you. He’s tall, too. He’s the pot of gold.”
Mei puts the cold cigarette on the table and looks at Ching.
“So your mom would let you marry a white ghost?”
Ching’s scandalized laughter is all the answer Mei needs.
To reach Big Aunt’s home, Mei descends into the tight air of the downtown subway station, rocking under the harbour with other commuters. She emerges out of the ground in Kowloon, joining the evening shoppers flooding Nathan Road. The crowd forces her steps smaller, belching her into a clothing store where everything is child-sized. She can’t show up at Little Stinker’s party empty-handed.
The store is full of families: mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons stumbling through a mess of strollers and diaper bags. A woman passes Mei, child strapped to her front like a koala bear on a tree. The child’s eyes are shut, its head burrowed into her chest. There is a sour smell on them, like old saliva.
Mei feels lost amongst the aisles. She touches the displays of tiny shirts and miniature socks, trying to envision a half-Chinese child in one of the pink anoraks studded with imitation rhinestones. It’s all so wrong, even getting proposed to in the street like that. Mei had always thought there would be more of a story, something she could share at dinner parties. A hot air balloon. A hike to the top of The Peak, Hong Kong’s lights below like scattered sparks. Something involving the Mona Lisa. A pair of girls giggle nearby, their laughter tinny and annoying. Mei wonders why the sound also fills her with longing.
Mei is most drawn to the baby shoes. Each one is smaller than a credit card and fits snugly in the palm of her hand. She chooses a tough-looking pair of black hiking boots for Little Stinker. The idea of boots for babies makes Mei smile. Does a baby hike alone? Does a baby carry a tiny backpack and compass too?
Mei’s mobile phone begins buzzing in her jacket pocket. It’s S.
“I didn’t see you on the floor this morning,” he says. “Are you okay?” Mei imagines him at Hype, hand cupped over the floor phone for privacy. No one even guessing the tedious ache of their recent conversations. Why Mei can’t move to Montreal. Why Mei can’t have his child and stay in Hong Kong. Why Mei can’t give up the child and stay with him. The thought of S. having to act carefree and witty with Hype’s fashionable clientele gives Mei a twinge of guilt. When he asks to meet later, she agrees. It will still be nice to see him after the stress of an afternoon with family. It will be excellent. They arrange to meet at the intersection nearest Big Aunt’s building.
As Mei messages him the address, she realizes Cousin might not like the boots as much as she does. Cousin is more practical than that. Mei picks out a red velour jacket with the word BOSS stitched across it in big gold lettering. A brand name for Cousin, and ironic humour for Mei. It will complement the boots perfectly. Mei pays for both. She and Little Stinker, the least they can do is look cool.
Big Aunt’s door opens very quickly, catching Mei in the middle of fluffing out her hair. Mei’s latest do is the faux-fro, a jaunty poof that is all the rage in town. S. says it looks good on her, but declines one for himself, no matter how local it would make him.
“You look beautiful as usual,” Cousin says. Her playful hands tease out bigger tufts in Mei’s hair. “I can’t wait for you to see Baby again. He’s started smiling! It’s great fun.”
“Good thing,” Mei says, “or you’d have had to return him to the baby store. You kept the receipt, right?”
Cousin laughs and darts down the hallway, looking behind once to make sure Mei is following. Pregnancy has given Cousin a sheen of health. If she is ever commissioned to make a portrait of Cousin, Mei thinks, she’d represent her as a red-bean bun—a happy pastry puff with a shiny buttered crust. Herself, she’d sculpt as a durian: heavy, spiky, guarding its offensive hidden fruit.
The living room is full of family. Even with the relatives milling about, the cacophony of small talk, Mother spots Mei’s entrance instantly. Her conversation with Small Aunt uninterrupted, Mother glances from the clock to Mei’s eyes. Late, late, always late. Mother’s message conveyed without a word exchanged.
A sudden feeling of exhaustion overcomes Mei, but as she looks about for somewhere quiet to sit she sees Small Uncle has come up next to her.
“Hello, Uncle,” she says, because she has to.
“Hello, Mei,” he says. “Still doing art?”
“I work in a salon now.” Where, Mei thinks, we could help you with that remarkable comb-over.
“The beauty industry, excellent. Are you in management?”
“Just training.”
“Getting married soon?”
“No.”
There is a pause before Uncle gives a thoughtless “oh,” and moves away. It is a relief when Cousin reappears with a dish of candied ginger. Famished, Mei crams a piece into her mouth.
Mother’s candy is wonderfully soft, the sugar crystals big enough to give it some grit, but small enough to melt on the tongue. The candy sweetness gives way to the fiery root beneath, and Mei holds it in her mouth without chewing. Ginger children bouncing up and down on her tongue until she can’t take it anymore, and spits them into her palm.
Mother descends on the girls, a platter of red eggs in her hands. The eggs are fresh from the pot, red dye still glistening and steaming.
“Ginger means more children,” she teases Cousin. “You need to make a girl next year, a loyal ox to accompany her brother rat!” She turns to Mei. “And you, Ah-Mei. Little Stinker needs cousins to play with.” Mother’s eyes focus on Mei. “Why are you wearing so much makeup?”
Mei’s hands rise instinctively to cover her face. “I’m not,” she says.
Cousin rushes in a comment to cover for Mei. “It must be from the rush of the journey.”
Mother thrusts the platter into Mei’s hands. “Everyone gets an egg,” she instructs. As she walks away, the cousins’ eyes meet in mutual relief.
“I don’t think I’m ready to have another baby,” Cousin says. She gives a shor
t laugh. “The stitches haven’t even healed yet.”
Mei remembers the scar after Little Stinker’s delivery, a small angry mouth stretched above the sallow skin of Cousin’s pelvis. Cousin had said an operation was the best way to have the baby, allowing her to get back to the bank at a predictable date. But looking at Cousin’s weak body helpless on the hospital bed, Mei couldn’t help feeling an incredible violence had been inflicted upon her.
Aunts, uncles, and younger cousins pass by, grabbing eggs and ginger from the girls’ plates, each outstretched hand accompanied by a perfunctory greeting. “Congratulations!” “Where’s that cute little baby?” “Getting married soon?” The younger children beg for a touch of Mei’s hair. “It’s like cotton candy,” the littlest one sighs.
The girls field the stream of relatives with practised grace, smiling and nodding and giving short answers with just the right amount of information: too much means tedious follow-up questions, too little means painful drawn-out inquiry.
“Eggs and ginger. What you two need to be doing is feeding each other,” says Big Aunt. Mother’s older sister, Big Aunt is what Mother would look like if she was fatter and happier. Big Aunt takes a piece of ginger and forces it into her daughter’s laughing mouth. “The hot ginger gives a weakened new mother energy,” she tells Cousin. The jade-ringed hands take an egg from Mei’s plate. Big Aunt’s quick fingers shuck the vermillion shell, revealing a trembling white meat underneath, streaked red where the dye seeped through. “And for you, Mei, you need the lucky red eggs to make you happy and strong for the future.”
As Mei accepts the bite of egg, she looks into Big Aunt’s broad face. The wrinkles bunched around her eyes can only have been formed from an excess of smiling. Sometimes, when Mother is deep in a tirade, Mei tries to hear the words in Big Aunt’s gentle, supportive style. It helps her resist the urge to argue back. The egg slides slick on her tongue, easing the emptiness she’s been feeling all day.
“When you were babies, you were our family’s new hope,” Big Aunt says. “Now the next generation brings even more joy.”
The food in Mei’s mouth turns to mush.
Then Big Aunt pulls Mei closer to her, speaks in a whisper. “Mei, I heard there’s a magician stylist at your salon, young, from Montreal. Do you think he can help a frizz-head like me?”
Mei catches herself beaming. To be able to think and talk about S. openly in this room. “We’re good friends,” she says. “Though you’re hard to improve, Auntie.”
“Flatterer. I heard he’s booked months ahead. But Hong Kong Business Magazine wants me to do a photo shoot at the new store next week and I thought I’d better get a spruce-up—”
There is a wail from the back of the room, and they all look up, alarmed. Following Cousin’s eyes, Mei sees Baby raised in the air above a cluster of fawning relatives. The child’s mouth is a black hole of sound, his face purple like he is about to pass out from the effort of screaming. When Cousin rushes over to take the screeching baby in her arms, Mei finds herself following. The three barricade themselves in a quieter room.
Big Aunt has converted Cousin’s old room into a nursery, and the familiar walls feel welcoming after the smother of the family room. There is a window that looks down on the main street, and Mei walks over to it, enjoying the sight of ant-sized people scurrying underneath. She can see the intersection where she will be reunited with S., and marks the spot on the glass with her finger. Hopefully they can at least watch a movie or share a meal before resuming the tense conversations of what to do next; if this is their end or new beginning. Maybe even share some wine. Mei had turned S. around on wine when she pointed out that the French seemed to be fine drinking through pregnancy. “Okay,” he’d allowed. “In moderation, though, right?”
Mei turns to Cousin, who is sitting on a new couch. The upholstery is covered with cartoon cherubs. The cherubs are cheeky, peeking down at Cousin’s breasts, one nipple clamped in the moist circle of Baby’s mouth. Between the two of them, Mei had a more impressive bust, it is something they always joked about when they went swimming as teens. Now Cousin has ponderous globes that Baby is vigorously applying himself to. Cousin’s breasts are surreal epitomes of fertility, like they’re out of some Botticelli painting. Mei can’t stop staring. Her newly tender chest chafing under the T-shirt.
Cousin gives a shy smile. “I didn’t think it was going to work, at first. But Baby knew what to do. He started nursing right away.” Cousin’s voice carries an awed reverence, like someone who has witnessed a miracle.
All of this frightens Mei. Cousin’s tone, the sight of her and Baby still fused together, and especially the word nursing. Mei lowers herself onto the floor next to them, at eye level with the scrunched face of the baby. His mouth twitches rhythmically; his eyes wide open and fixated on the air near Cousin’s heart.
“Well, now we know what breasts are really for,” Mei says. The platter of eggs she brought in is on the coffee table. Mei picks up an egg, enjoying the fit of it in her palm. “I’m sorry my mom keeps calling him Stinker,” she says. “It is so annoying.” Mei raps the egg against the tabletop. Cracks fissure the red shell.
“She’s just being protective,” Cousin says.
“From made-up ghosts?”
“Maybe they’re real to her.”
The peeled egg releases from its shell, its oily smell beckoning. Mei has been hungry all day, but nothing seems satisfying except these bland eggs. She sinks her teeth into the soft white mound.
Cousin looks at Mei. “You know what she said to me the other day? She said she hoped I would make a better mother than she is. She said she hoped Baby and I would be good friends.”
“What can you say to that?” Mei asks. She is unable to meet Cousin’s eyes, staring instead at the bowed baby’s head, which has finally slipped free from the breast. His eyelids have lowered into closed flaps, newborn dreams flipping behind them.
“I said every parent is destined for failure. I said I accepted the failure.”
“Um.” Mei points to Cousin’s bare breast, still hanging out of her shirt.
Cousin widens her eyes in horror. They laugh as she rearranges herself.
Asleep, Baby looks like a beleaguered old man who has fought to be here, cheek smeared against Cousin’s chest. Mei closes her eyes too, and in the darkness of her head, she smells them. Cousin and Baby. It is a comfortable smell, of warm skin and baby powder and clean clothes.
For someone who has only ever succeeded, Mei thinks, Cousin seems pretty smart about failure.
Just before the naming ceremony, Mei needs to vomit. With an apologetic smile, she pushes her way through the river of relatives, stumbles into the bathroom.
Hacking coughs force clear bile out of Mei’s mouth. Each wave sends her knees digging into the spotless marble of Big Aunt’s floor. The family counsellor had spoken about light nausea, but this feels like Mei’s guts are trying to jump out of her body. Ginger sandpapers her throat. Her family’s joyful cries come muffled through the door.
After Mei flushes away the evidence she feels much better. The purging leaves her almost refreshed. She takes her time washing her hands. Watches the suds build into small mountains of lather. Rinses under scalding water. Her hands come out red and scrubbed. The decisions she made at Family Planning were easy, but now her body’s changing.
Mei checks the mirror again. She pinches her cheeks to bring back the colour. She bites her lips. As Mei straightens her T-shirt she passes her hands over the stowaway in her stomach. It embodies all the stolen kisses she’s shared with S. in Hype’s cramped storeroom, pressed tight against each other to avoid knocking the silver-pink rows of shampoo bottles from their shelves. All the plans S. and she conjured in their night walks along the churning dark harbour, fantasies of exploring western China by rail, watching the northern lights dance in the Yukon. He could teach the baby things he’s tried to educate Mei about: Frisbee, blue cheese, ice-skating. In Montreal, there are even some good art sc
hools to look into.
A knock on the door. Mother’s voice calls her name. “What are you doing in there? Hurry up. The ceremony’s about to begin.” The door jiggles, and then Mother is inside the bathroom. Mei curses herself for forgetting to lock it.
“What’s this smell? What’s happened?” Mother’s nose is wrinkled in judgment, her head tilted back to smell better.
Braced for the reprimand, Mei keeps her face turned to the mirror. “I’m sorry. It’s nothing. Maybe food poisoning.”
“Poisoning? Now?” Hastily, Mother rubs her hands together to warm them, closes her eyes to concentrate. She puts one palm on Mei’s stomach, another supporting her back. Energy courses between the two palms, spreading warmth up and down Mei’s body. In the mirror, Mei is surprised to find that over the years she has become the taller of the two, the burr of her hair almost a foot above Mother’s sooty perm.
“It can’t be food poisoning. Your stomach is warm.” Mother’s eyes search Mei’s in the mirror. Silence hangs between them like a bridge, neither of them finding the words to cross it.
“Well, I feel better now,” Mei says. “Thanks.”
Mother pushes Mei out the door. “Hurry up, we’ll miss the announcement of Stinker’s name.”
They stand next to each other at the back of the noisy, laughter-filled living room, shoulders almost touching. Cousin’s banker husband holds Little Stinker, who stares unblinking at the fan of people around him. Radiant, Cousin stands behind her husband, arms around his waist. With a flash of scissors, Big Aunt lops off a lock of Baby’s thick hair and holds it in the air like a winning raffle ticket. The relatives all cheer and clap.
“Long life!”
“Great happiness!”
When Little Stinker’s true name is announced, Mei glances over at Mother, and catches the wide smile on her face. Mei has grown up trying to capture these unprotected smiles, nestling them in her memory before the animated joy dies out of Mother’s eyes. She leans over to her mother.
“I have something to tell you,” Mei says.
