by B. N. Toler
“Then you fly,” Paul intervened. “You feel free and weightless. The adrenaline rush is intense.”
“It sounds intense,” the one standing closest to me said, his gaze fixed on me. “Maybe I can get your number and you can tell me some more about it?”
Before I could respond, Paul whipped a brochure out of his back pocket and handed it to him. “Call that number there or visit our website.” With that, he took my beer and threw one arm around me, placing his hand on the bare skin of my side. I was stunned. Marcus was too, apparently, as his mouth twisted even more. The one that asked for my number backed away, holding his hands up as if surrendering. I moved to jerk Paul’s hand away, but his grip tightened. Then he said, “You guys enjoy the race.” Paul led me away, his arm still around me, his hand gripping my waist. When we were about twenty feet away, I got my wits back and shoved him off of me. He laughed as he stumbled to the side.
“What the hell was that?” I hissed.
“They were about to mount and start dry humping you.”
“You’re the one that told me I should flirt to sell!”
“Yes, flirt. Not look like you were auditioning for Playboy.”
I rubbed my forehead. This conversation was killing me. But deep down, I knew what he was saying. He thought I went overboard; went too far. And I did. I knew that. But I was so tired of him and Marcus and the guys making me out to be this shrew with a stick up my ass. Just because I didn’t walk around and act like a bimbo and fawn all over every attractive man I saw, didn’t mean I was incapable of doing it. Looking back, it was stupid. I was an intelligent woman. And I reduced myself to prove him wrong. The feminists of the world would have hung their heads in shame if they’d witnessed it. But on the other side of that, there was this: I wanted to make Paul see me in a different way. I wanted him to see I could be sexy. However, I would never have told him that. So I played dumb. “You said to flirt. You challenged me to prove I could do it.”
He chuckled disdainfully. “Well, I didn’t know you’d go over there and act like a sex kitten,” he grumbled.
Shaking my head, I asked, “Sex kitten?”
“What was with rubbing the beer all over you like that?”
I laughed. Like, really laughed. “I thought it was a nice touch.”
“All you needed was some cheesy music and you’d have had the start of an amateur porn movie.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now you’re exaggerating.”
“Dude was about to bend you over the cornhole boards and go at it.”
“Paul!” I shrieked, looking around to see if people passing by heard him. “You’re being disgusting.”
“It could have been titled: Corn in The Hole.
“You’re so gross!” I groaned as I tugged my shirt back down, my modesty having returned full force.
“No,” Marcus piped in, making me jump. I hadn’t noticed him behind us. What was it with this guy? “He’s not so gross. He’s so jealous.”
I pressed my lips together, unsure of how to respond to that. Was Paul really jealous? As for Paul, he pretended not to hear Marcus. Instead, he immediately beelined for another group of people and stopped right in front of a woman with huge boobs wearing a white T-shirt. And she had no bra on. Paul was like white on rice. Maybe he wasn’t jealous after all.
Ashley watches me, the slightest smirk on her face. “He was definitely jealous.”
I snicker. “He was the most confusing man I’d ever met.” Looking at my watch, I realize I’m already late for dinner. “Are we done for today? I’m late.”
“Oh, sure. Same time next week?”
“See you then.”
When I get home after Ashley releases me, it’s already close to seven. As I climb the stairs of my porch, the front door opens and out steps Mei-ling, donning a Chinese Hanfu dress. It’s red, with gold flowers embroidered into it. Her black hair is tied up in a seemingly loose bun, sticks crossing in the back of it. She looks like a China doll, her skin flawless, lightened with makeup and rouge added to her cheeks.
“Ni hao,” she greets me, bowing slightly. I stare at her a moment, slightly stunned. I was expecting to come home and eat pizza and pass out on the couch while watching some corny movie with everyone, not to be greeted at the door this way. From the open doorway, beautiful music plays, beats and twangs of instruments I’m not familiar with, but the sound is amazing. Foreign.
“Hi, Mei-ling.” I give a little wave.
“Ni hao, Mom!” Neena appears in the doorway. I’m glad she’s so excited. She, too, is wearing a Hanfu dress, but hers is light blue with white embroidery. My little doll. Her face is made up, same as Mei-ling’s, with lighter rouge on her cheeks, and she’s wearing a wig that matches Mei-ling’s hair. Earlier today, she looked tired and worn out. But now, she seems so happy and peppy, with a giant smile on her face. My mouth quirks up as I stare at her.
“You look beautiful, Neena.”
She looks up at Mei-ling, pleased with my compliment.
“You always do,” I quickly added, because it’s true. “What’s going—” My words are halted as Paul appears just behind her. In a men’s black Hanfu lined with silver, he looks incredible. The silky black fabric against his deeply golden skin, matched with his salt-and-pepper hair is sexy as hell. I swear, the man looks good in anything. And in nothing at all as well. It’s really not fair. I center in on his mouth. Suddenly the memory of the kiss we shared snaps through my mind and I can’t help licking my dry lips. It’s rolled through my mind on repeat since it happened; how he held me, how he silenced me, how he sucked the breath right out of me. My life is filled with worry and dread. I don’t know how things with Neena will turn out. That scares me. I have so little power. So little control. The not knowing is awful. I fear the unexpected. But Paul kissing me was definitely unexpected—in the best way. He made me stop thinking for a brief moment. And I find myself craving more.
Paul must recognize my reaction because he tightens his mouth, fighting a smile. He knows the look. He knows I’m attracted to him. Even when I’ve hated him, I’ve always found him attractive. “Ni hao, Clara.” He dips his head in greeting, his hands behind his back. When he raises it again, his eyes find mine, and there’s a heat in them that hits me everywhere below the belt. I swear, one look has my insides fluttering. Tingling. It’s his superpower. And it’s my kryptonite.
“Hi,” I say, dumbly, before swallowing the dry lump in my throat and tearing my gaze from his. “Looks like I’m late to the party.”
“Actually, you are just in time,” Mei-ling tells me, as she steps to the side and motions a hand for me to enter. Neena and Paul move as well so I can step inside, but Mei-ling touches my arm, stopping me. “It is tradition to take your shoes off before you enter.” Looking down to my right, I see everyone else’s shoes lined up nice and orderly.
“Oh, sorry.” I quickly slip my shoes off, placing them next to Paul’s, then step inside. The stairway to the second floor is lit with beautiful Chinese lanterns, but the living room is covered with giant, wall-sized pictures of what appear to be Chinese buildings.
Neena takes my hand and squeezes, resting her head against my arm. When I look down at her, she’s smiling as she stares at the photos. “Dad said since I can’t go to China, he’d bring China to me.”
I blink fast. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. She’s always wanted to travel; see the world. Paul’s need to be free and seek adventure is definitely genetic. With her being so young, her poor health, and money being so tight paying medical bills, traveling hasn’t been possible. Paul is standing on the other side of me now, but I can’t look at him. If I do, I’ll definitely cry. Instead, I slip my hand in his and squeeze. It’s the only way I can communicate how much this means. Not just to Neena, whom it means the world to, but to me. When he squeezes back, he continues to hold my hand.
Neena points to the huge picture in front of us. “This is the Tiananmen. It’s known as the Gate of Heavenly Peace.”
&nb
sp; “Wow,” I manage with a husky voice, my throat still tight with emotion.
“Mei-ling says it’s like their national symbol.”
“Should we have her dress and then we can give her a tour of China?” Mei-ling asks. I spin around. Her tone is so demure; not like how she usually speaks. Normally, she is loud and straightforward. Now, she’s . . . soft. I guess she’s taking this presentation pretty seriously.
“Dress?”
“Oh, yes,” Paul chuckles. “We have a Hanfu for you as well. It’s on your bed.”
“I’ll help you,” Mei-ling adds.
“And hurry up,” Marcus cuts in as he enters the room. His hair is tied back and he’s wearing a black Hanfu, just like Paul’s, minus the silver. I can’t help grinning.
“Shut it, Clara,” he grumbles. I know deep down he hates this. But he loves Neena more. Like Paul, he’ll do anything for her. “The dumplings are almost done.”
“Don’t ruin them!” Mei-ling yells from halfway up the stairs, sounding like her old self. I try to muffle my snort of laughter. There she is.
“Be right back,” I call as I follow her up. As I climb the stairs, I look down and see Paul is watching me. And just before the wall from above blocks my view of him, I mouth, thank you.
“I want to help Mom get ready, too!” Neena calls as she follows me up the stairs. “We’ll be right back.” I gaze back and notice she’s limping slightly and her face cringes a little when she’s halfway up the stairs, but she quickly notices I’m staring and smiles. Her joints must be hurting. She wants this so much, I’m afraid she’s hiding how exhausted and pained she is at the moment.
While the ladies return, Clara looks incredible in her Hanfu. It looks like mine, black with silver lining. Her hair is up, just like Mei-ling’s, but she must’ve decided against the makeup. The way the dress is cut, how it fits her body . . . she looks beautiful.
Clara is unusually quiet as Neena leads her through the rooms, explaining what she’s looking at; the Temple of Heaven, the Great Wall of China, and so on. Clara gets a thorough history lesson and by the time Neena is done, it’s time to eat. She hasn’t been too hungry lately, and I’m hoping she’s up to eating the foreign cuisine. The table is set, with chopsticks to the right of the plate, and glasses are out.
“In proper Chinese etiquette, the guest of honor sits facing the doorway,” Mei-ling explains. “This is not our house, but as Marcus is cooking and we are technically hosting, he will sit in the seat closest to the kitchen, facing Neena.”
Mei-ling directs us to our seats and when Marcus enters, he’s holding a tray with some kind of fancy dish with a lid.
“Ooh, what is it, Marcus?” Neena asks, as she raises her head in an attempt to peek.
“This, my dear Neena,” Marcus begins with his best imitation of an Asian accent, “is a Chinese specialty. We have made only the best for you, young grasshopper.”
“Oh shit,” I murmur. “He’s going Mr. Miyagi on us.”
“Who is Mr. Miyagi?” Neena questions, her face scrunched up.
I look at Clara like she’s insane. In a serious and intent tone, I ask slowly, “She’s never seen The Karate Kid?”
Clara appears to be spacing out for a beat and then rolls her eyes at me and chortles. “Afraid not.” Maybe she’s forgetting how much of a cult classic this movie is.
Turning to Neena, I meet her gaze head-on. “Neena, after dinner I want you to go upstairs and pack a bag. I’m taking you out of this home immediately. Clearly you have been deprived of any real culture and your mother needs to have her rights taken away.”
Neena giggles and Clara shakes her head at my ridiculousness.
“And you!” I point to Marcus. “How could you let this happen?”
“I’m sorry,” Marcus feigns crying. “I’ve failed you as a friend.”
“Mr. Miyagi was Japanese, not Chinese,” Mei-ling points out, seemingly annoyed.
“But he played a Chinese man in the movie,” Marcus adds.
“No, he didn’t,” she argues.
He laughs. “He was badass, nonetheless.” Then looking down to Neena, he says, in his best Miyagi voice, “First learn stand, then learn fly. Nature rule, Nanson, not mine.”
“Another Mr. Miyagi quote,” Clara says, a little dryly. At least she’s talking more now. I’m starting to wonder what has her so off tonight.
“Marcus,” Mei-ling says his name, her thick accent rising an octave the more annoyed she gets. “The food.”
“Oh, yes.” Marcus nods, still holding the tray. “Tonight we have made a very special meal for you. You are going to love it. Your parents are going to love it.” Marcus is purposely taking forever, enjoying riling Clara and Mei-ling up.
“Spit it out, Marcus,” Clara groans.
“Silence!” he snaps at Clara, still in an Asian accent, making us laugh.
“For you, tonight,” he sits the tray down slowly, “we have . . . the pupu platter.”
Neena’s head rears back as her mouth twists. “Poo poo?”
“Oh, yes, so much pupu,” he replies, laying heavy emphasis on the pupu.
Neena looks at me, eyes wide, sheer shock and disbelief in her gaze, and mouths, poo poo?
The room roars with laughter, to which her face turns bright red. Even Mei-ling is laughing with us.
“What?” Neena asks, looking utterly confused.
Clara leans against me as she laughs, unable to stop. Leave it to Marcus to make everyone laugh. I wrap my arm around her and pull her to me as our bodies shake. It feels good to hold her this way, when she’s happy. I constantly see her mind working overtime. When she finally pulls herself up, she is wiping under her eyes she’s still laughing so hard. “Not poop, babe. I promise,” she cackles, before chuckling softly. “It’s just the name of the dish.”
Neena cuts Marcus a sassy look, even though she’s smiling. I swear this kid has the best sense of humor. She just rolls with things. She knows how to laugh at herself. “Very funny, Marcus.”
“You really think I’d feed you poop?” he asks as his laughter ebbs.
“I don’t know,” she answers honestly.
Marcus lifts the lid off the dish and in true Chinese etiquette, begins serving us. “Well, if it makes you feel better, this pupu platter is probably going to make me poo poo later, for real.”
“Marcus!” Mei-ling shrieks. Then she starts fussing at him in her native language that none of us, not even Marcus, understands.
“You. Are. Gross,” Clara tells him while I try to bite back my roars of heavy chuckles.
“Just don’t use my bathroom,” Neena insists as she practices with her chopsticks. “You clogged it last time. We had to hire a plumber.”
“Oh yeah,” Marcus mumbles as he looks off to the side as if remembering.
“Real classy, dude,” I interject, but he simply grins.
Marcus continues to serve the food as he speaks to Neena. “I think your mother actually cooked that night. Must’ve been food poisoning. Sent me straight to the shitter.”
“Language, Marcus. And it was not my cooking,” Clara defends. “And are we seriously talking about Marcus taking a dump right now? I mean . . . right now at the dinner table?”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Marcus looks at Clara thoughtfully before turning back to Neena. “We’re discussing poo poo, while eating pupu, kid.”
What is it about gross stuff that makes kids laugh? Neena’s face lights up as she laughs as hard as Marcus. There’s not a single person in this room that isn’t touched by her smile. It’s captivating. And I know, without a doubt, we’d all do anything to see it. Even if that means talking about poop when we’re about to eat. As I watch her, my heart tightens, and I feel Clara’s hand rest on my leg and squeeze as she watches Neena thoughtfully. I place mine on hers as our eyes meet. It’s one of those moments, and I know I’ll never forget. I wish I could freeze it, or somehow box it; trap it so we never lose it. Here we are, with our friends, and our daughte
r. Our daughter is sick, weakening before our very eyes, and she’s laughing. How many of these moments do we have left? How many more might we get? I’d give anything to see that smile forever. That thought chokes me. And angers me. I’ve missed a lifetime of these moments . . . her lifetime of moments. It’s not fair. And suddenly, I’m fuming. I’m angry I was denied this. Seeing my little girl every day. Watching her play, so carefree, without a single fear in the world. It’s not fucking fair. I’m not ever going to be ready to say good-bye to my child. Why didn’t Clara tell me? Why didn’t she try harder to find me? I know she emailed . . . but is that really trying? She robbed me of precious time.
I scoot away slightly. I can’t touch her right now. Her hand slips off my thigh, and I refuse to look at her. I already know how she looks. Confused. A moment ago I was relishing her body against mine as we laughed. We were a unit. Now, I can’t even look at her. I plaster a smile on and try to focus on the moment. This moment. With my daughter who is smiling. One of the few I have left.
After an incredible meal consisting of the pupu platter, Chinese dumplings, and snacking on Tuckahoe pie, we’re stuffed. Clara and I decide to do the dishes while Marcus, Mei-ling, and Neena plop on the couch and digest for a bit.
Clara is washing a pot as I stack the last of the plates by the sink. “I think Marcus used every dish in the house.”
I snort. That’s the only thing I can do. Only it comes out like a growl.
She slams her hand down on the faucet, shutting off the water. “What is it, Paul?”
“What’s what?” I play dumb.
“This,” she motions a soapy hand at me. “You went from hot to cold in a matter of seconds with me. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I answer, gritting my teeth. I want to lash out at her, but I know I shouldn’t. It won’t change what happened and it won’t change what is happening. I missed the first twelve years of Neena’s life. And now she’s dying. Those are the facts. Yelling at Clara, no matter how angry I am with her, won’t change that.
