The 8th Sky_A Psychological Novel With An Unforgettable Twist

by Leigh Lyn

  I could imagine the cobweb of corporate games and office politics Matt had to go through all too well. I told Ben we were going for a smoke. And I dragged Matt to the opposite side of the dark gobbled lane, where, tucked in a gap between the buildings, was a small open-air amphitheater. Eight lampposts cast long shadows on the gray stone as we stood at the top of circular stands and looked down at the empty stage below. After the booming bass, the quietude of the place caused a ring in my ears. Our footsteps echoed as we stepped down to the lowest bench and sat down.

  “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time,” I said. “The only one who can confirm my story is you.”

  “I’m sorry, Lin,” Matt replied, as he sat down. “I tried to contact you, but they said you were unwell.”

  “There’s no need to apologize, Matt, but I want to know why you believed Roger?”

  Matt’s face was flustered. “Why, I didn’t know what to believe but, during that last meeting when you flipped out, I was spooked.”

  “But we’d worked side by side those few days. You know I had a reason to be raging mad. You should know what kind of a person I am, Matt. We hung out. We were friends. How could you sit with them?”

  Matt looked upset. “In my defense, when Kat called me at home, I came back at once. By the time I walked in, a bundle of people was streaming out of the conference room looking pretty unsettled. Then Roger came up to me and said there was something wrong with you and told me to sit next to Peter and let them handle it.”

  “That’s it? They said, ‘Something was wrong?’”

  “Would you not have done the same if you were me and you saw me slam the table in front of the boss?”

  For a second, I didn’t know what to say, then I blurted out, “Didn’t we discuss everything and come to the same conclusion?” I scrutinized his face. His eyes were downcast, his chin resting in his palms. “You knew what was going on, Matt.”

  His chin dipped even further. Averting his eyes, he pleaded, “I did, but they pointed out that all the information you gave me was false to begin with. They said you and I drew those conclusions on false data that you imagined in your deluded state of mind.”

  He looked up, his eyes adrift like two lifesavers in a storm at sea.

  “There was no email to confirm any of what you discussed with Lao Bo.”

  That was a stupendous oversight on my behalf. But was that all it takes to prove one is crazy?

  “Did Roger tell you why I would make up these requirements and then raise suspicion about them?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s because it doesn’t make sense. Why would I do such a silly thing?”

  “Well—” He paused and looked at me apologetically. “You threw the table on top of Peter and me, Lin. How does that make sense?”

  Scenes flashed in front of my eyes, an overexposed, fast-forwarded clip with too many overlays.

  “You insisted I challenge their requirements, Matt!”

  Matt shrugged. “Listen, things became absurd from one moment onward. And that was either an actual call you got from Lao Bo or when something short-wired in your head. I had no way of knowing which.”

  Lao Bo did call. He was responsible for the short-wiring in my head. Not keen to admit I’d gone off the bend even a little, I argued. “We only had eighteen hours. I asked you to finish the drawings first after which we would raise questions, Matt. That was the plan: to finish our part and complete the job we’re paid to do so they can’t turn us into scapegoats. Only then were we going to challenge the client on his absurd brief.”

  Matt threw his hands up in the air. “Do you remember how Roger dropped by while we were arguing?”

  My mind drew a blank.

  “After you told him G.Y.’s requests, Roger said they were one of the true giants responsible for China’s economic miracle. Then you picked up your Clancy novel and said that, from any perspective, the nation had more enemies within than without.”

  “I said that?”

  “Those exact words. Roger looked you in the eye and said he trusted you to do whatever was necessary for the presentation and you did. Mission accomplished, were it not for that gaffe at the end.”

  He got up to go but, seeing the expression on my face, he hesitated.

  “Come on, Matt, help me.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “Alright, I’ll only say this once. I believe this ghost or monster you’re chasing is not just G.Y. or the regime. Strictly speaking, it’s not even malicious, but it is everywhere. It’s the immoral brute and stray in us, which has no ideological goals or anti-humanitarian aim. Where and whenever the veneer civilization paints over society rubs off, it will surface. And people will succumb to it.”

  Disappointed he was resorting to cryptic metaphors, I stared at Matt, who took a pack of Kent from his pocket, lit one up and handed it to me.

  “You are insane to get in its way,” he said. “Let alone fight it.”

  It had been a long time since my last smoke and the nicotine rushed to my head, making me dizzy. Matt’s lowered gaze met my eyes as he got up. “Look, I’m sorry things happened the way they did.” He pulled up his collar. “But you should forget it and move on.”

  I clenched my jaw. “I need to clear my name, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Matt averted his gaze. “You know, his curve balls apart, Roger is not what you suspect him to be.”

  “You know something I don’t?”

  “The last day before he disappeared, we went to the Corp for a meeting together. When it ended, Roger asked me to wait outside the door, and they had a huge argument.”

  “About?”

  “I didn’t understand the dialect. I only overheard the confrontation, but when Roger came out of the room he looked like all blood was sucked out of him.”

  “How do you know what happened if you didn’t understand the dialect?”

  “I asked Roger what it was about, and he acted like they cut off his tongue.” Matt shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since, Lin. At least, you are here standing in front of me. No one knows where poor Roger is. And if he didn’t ask me to wait outside the room, I might have disappeared too.”

  “Or, you might not.”

  Matt sighed. “Can you explain why you are still around, while Roger, who only raised his voice, has evaporated into thin air?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he moved on after he accomplished his mission?”

  “You would not say this if you saw his face.” Matt’s own face scrunched up.

  Gray smoke softened the edges of our shadows as we sat in silence. Loud voices and laughter crossed the street. It was Matt’s friends, who were going to another club.

  “Will you be alright?” Matt asked.

  I nodded and mustered a smile. After saying goodbye, I stayed to finish my Kent. The tip flared up bright orange as I inhaled. If Matt was right, it was impossible to dodge the dragon’s teeth. But women had bound their own feet, and men had offered their sons to become eunuchs once they accepted that frame of mind. And every man had watched the virility of the giants on the stage from a lethargic distance and waited to be thrown a crumb of the cake. That was not a way to live.

  For some reason, I and this city were an exception to the rule. We had a license to transgress, err, and overstep. Hong Kong, being the lab rat for the “second” system, I understood, but what about me? What was it they wanted from me?

  Chapter 16

  Patches of crisp morning light were scattered over the warm parquet floor as I stomped across the living room to the kitchen for coffee. My head was pounding from last night. I wished I could stay in bed, but the twins and I were to meet my mother for Sunday Dim Sum in an hour. As the aroma of coffee filled the apartment and the black liquid rose to the top of my mug, my eyes wandered over the table. My chest tightened as they fell on the USB attached to my key chain.

  Bonehead! After being hit by the van, running into Matt, and everything else, I had forgotten abo
ut the video files. I inserted the USB into my laptop.

  Lindsay Lee-Hypnosis-01-20101105

  Lindsay Lee-Hypnosis-02-20101105

  Only two of the three files had been copied. I clicked on the second file and waited for the video to load. A snow-crashed image appeared—they must have been using old-fashioned equipment—an electric blue room appeared. A scruffy, rattled version of me in a hospital gown was lying on the couch. The setting was the same as the first video Dr. Wen had shown me.

  “Lin, I want you to go back further in time and tell me what happened the day before you were admitted to the asylum,” the same scratchy male voice said.

  The Lin-on-the-screen did not respond.

  “Lin, go back eighteen hours and tell me what happened,” the voice repeated in a calm, level tone.

  “I’d just packed my bag to go home when the phone rang.”

  Her eyes were closed. It was odd to watch this strange version of myself talk about a bizarre stage in my life.

  “What time was it?”

  “Three, four in the morning? I’m not sure,” she muttered, rocking her head left and right. “I answered, thinking it was my husband, but it was Lao Bo—”

  “Who’s Lao Bo?”

  “The client’s client.”

  “What did Lao Bo have to say so late in the night?”

  “It was a conference call with him and his assistant. He said they wanted me to incorporate G.Y.’s ideas in the plan.”

  “Then what?”

  “They told me to make these weird changes, and I didn’t understand.”

  “And?”

  “I panicked. I called the Corp’s project manager after the call ended and woke him up. He knew about the changes, said he had some sketches, benchmarks, and he would upload the graphic standard on the project’s shared website for me. He gave me the password, said he’d take it down in an hour and that I shouldn’t keep any record of it.”

  “What did you do with the drawings?” the hypnotist asked.

  “I saved them in a safe place.” Gray snow-flakes suddenly filled the screen before it froze altogether. Did Dr. Wen know about this all along and keep it from me? Goodness, I better re-evaluate our relationship if this was true.

  “Bob!” Maxy’s loud scream reverberated through the air. Bob was Maxy’s nickname for me; she had made it up when suffering from a cold and the word “Mom” was un-pronounceable for her.

  “What, sweetie?” I checked her face for flushes caused by flu or any deadly injuries that warranted a scream like that.

  “Whatcha doing?” She yawned.

  I closed my laptop. “Checking my emails.”

  “What’s for breakfast?”

  “We’re meeting Niang for Dim Sum.”

  My mother insisted the twins called her Niang, which was Putonghua for mother rather than grandmother.

  “Wake Mimi up, will you? We’re leaving in twenty.”

  “Mimi!” Maxy screamed as she wandered back to their room.

  A sea of people had congregated outside the restaurant. Yum Cha was Niang’s stable pastime on a Sunday morning. After last night’s outing, I preferred a brunch that didn’t aggravate the seismic pounding in my head, but she loved it.

  When I mentioned Niang’s name, the Maître D’—a stout man in a black suit with gold piping and oily black hair that appeared to be painted on—nodded and said, “A table coming right up, Mrs. Lee.”

  A hostess in a red Qipao took the twins and me through a maze of tables and sat us down at a booth. Just in time, Mimi poked her head over the top of the dividing screen to spot Niang across the dining area.

  “Niang!” she yelped, beckoning her grandmother, who redirected her strut toward our table.

  “There you are,” Niang said, much louder than was necessary. “What’s with the crappy table, Lemon? Did you not mention my name?” People at surrounding tables looked over their shoulders at us as Niang—thoroughly enjoying the attention—waved the captain over.

  “This is not my usual booth.”

  “Let’s stay, Niang,” I said. “Is this not a good table, girls?” I looked at the twins.

  Mimi glanced from Niang to me while Maxy growled under her breath and continued playing a game on her cell. Niang did not relent until we’d moved, casting me rebuffing looks. After we’d settled at her regular table, she said, “I’m starving, girls. Where’s the food?”

  “Shall we go order some food from the buffet table?” Mimi asked.

  “Later, silly girl,” Niang replied. “You’re dumber than a piglet, aren’t you?”

  I bit my lip. Cultivating self-esteem was not high on Niang’s priority list as far as the rearing of girls was concerned. I grew numb to it as a child, but it infuriated me when I saw it applied to the twins.

  “Let’s see what’s going around in the carts first.”

  Both grandmother and granddaughter craned their necks to look at the Dim Sum stacked in bamboo cages on serving carts. Dressed in thin blue cotton uniforms, the attendant chanted, “Prawn dumplings… Roasted pork buns… Beef balls… Spring rolls…”

  “Can we have two beef balls, and two spring rolls?” I yelled.

  “No, no, no, spring rolls are too greasy and too much red meat is bad. Cancel that!” Niang frowned. “We’ll have two prawn dumplings, and two roasted pork buns, please.”

  “And two of those steaming longevity buns too,” Mimi added.

  The attendant responded without missing a beat. “Coming right up, Mrs. Lao.” Within a minute, he had pushed his cart next to us and stacked steaming bamboo containers in the middle of our table. He stamped our Dim Sum card, after which he stayed and chatted with Niang, fishing for investment tips that my mother dished out lavishly. Another trolley-pushing attendant joined him. High-pitched orders of other customers were now fired at our table, which became the epicenter of a Dim Sum opera. Pained by my hangover, I asked the attendants to keep their cart rolling.

  “Don’t be rude, Lemon,” Niang rebuked.

  “Have some tea, Mom,” Mimi said, holding a peachy-white longevity bun in one hand and the pot in the other.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” I said.

  “Knock on the table with your knuckles, Lemon. Where are your manners?”

  “I already said thank you, didn’t I?” I growled.

  Mimi topped up Niang’s cup. “It’s Pu-Er, your favorite.”

  “Thank you, Mimi. And do you remember why I like it?” Niang asked. She had been passing some of her knowledge of Chinese medicine to Mimi.

  “Because it is an anti-oxidant and reduces blood pressure,” Mimi replied.

  “You’ll grow up to be smarter than your mom, won’t you?”

  “I already said thank you, didn’t I?” I growled.

  I sighed. Niang lived for hammering Chinese etiquette into our heads, and today was no different.

  “Let me tell you a story from the Qing Dynasty,” she said. “A bored Emperor Qian Long disguised himself as a commoner to venture outside the Forbidden Palace. While eating at a restaurant, he poured his servant a cup of tea. Awed, the man wanted to kowtow, but he couldn’t without giving away the emperor’s identity. Instead, he reciprocated by bending his index and middle finger and knocking them on the table to signal the kneeled bow.

  “But I’m not a servant and Mimi is not an emperor in disguise,” I protested.

  “It’s tradition, Lin, and you are being disrespectful. Why can’t you put in a little effort, huh?”

  Niang’s punctuation of our reality, with shoulds-and-shouldn’ts, was exhausting.

  “Can we talk about the weather or, God forbid, current issues?”

  “Niang, I got twenty-four out of twenty-five marks for a Math test,” Mimi cooed.

  “Well done, Silly Piglet.” Mother dove into her bag, retrieved her purse and handed them each a neat roll of folded red one-hundred-dollar bills. “Here you go, but don’t spend it all now.”

  “That’s too much money, Niang!” I exc
laimed. “I’m teaching them to see the value of learning for the sake of their own future. Please don’t go dangling cash in front of their noses.”

  “It’s the grandparent’s prerogative to spoil grandchildren.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t undermine me so openly in front of them,” I whispered, turning my head so Maxy and Mimi couldn’t read my lips.

  “And you are not undermining me?” she exclaimed, loud and clear for them to hear.

  Voids existed in my childhood memories instead of occasions when we bonded or had a hearty mother-to-daughter chat. This was not one of my gaffes. Niang belonged to the generation preceding the Asian Tiger-moms and had better things to do than spending time with her silly kids who would grow up anyhow. That was not a problem but, sometime between my dad’s death and the twins’ birth, she’d turned into a ferocious defender of tradition and a reviver of pseudo-religious superstition and all the things she’d abandoned after marrying my dad. It seemed she regarded the twins as her chance to redeem herself to her gods and demons. The problem was that I hated superstition with a passion and the twins were my kids.

  “I want to teach them how to handle money. No one taught me when I was little,” Niang said. “Anyway, I made a lot on the stock market. ‘Zi-Wei-Dou-Shou’ was right on the money.”

  Patting the tip of Mimi’s nose with her finger, she continued, “I sold my Australian dollars and, promptly, it dived twenty-five cents, so I bought it again before the market closed. I bet tomorrow it will go back up again.” Niang chuckled.

  She believed in “Zi-Wei-Dou-Shou”—a form of fortune-telling—like Christians believe in the resurrection, buying foreign currencies on margins based on its predictions. She claimed such high success rates, her broker asked her to teach a class about it at his brokerage, which left me baffled.

  “What it does is set you up to ask the right questions,” I couldn’t help arguing. “You guess that selling at six dollars or six-fifteen would have made you money. So, whatever the Zi-Wei-Dou-Shou’s result, you would have beaten the odds, the question being just by how much. If it were me, I would have posed the question at five dollars, in which case I would have lost money no matter what.”