My Summer of Love and Misfortune

by Lindsay Wong

  I decide to forgive my father for lying to me, just because I want him to forgive my grandfather after so many years.

  After our twentieth or two hundredth emotional group embrace, my grandpa hands me a tin full of crispy red bean pecan cookies and more Chinese cash. 5,500 yuan!!!

  I’m so lucky that my grandparents are so generous. What happened to my dad? Why doesn’t he just give me money anytime he sees me? If he gave me money every time that we cried together, he’d be broke and I’d be a millionairess.

  Apparently, generosity is not genetic.

  What else have I inherited from my heart-attack-inducing, secret-keeping family?

  * * *

  As I hail a taxi back to the Shangri-La, my stomach lurches from too many varieties of bugs, cookies, decades-long secrets, and epic feelings of helplessness on a global scale. I’m extremely anxious about reconciling my entire long-lost family. Because what if I will never be able to change my dad’s mind about my poor grandpa? What if my dad stays furious and heartbroken and depressed forever? How can I help him understand that forgiveness is worthy and possible when I’m still reeling from Samira and Peter?

  As the nauseous feeling intensifies, I realize that forgiveness is like taking your first bite of a scorpion. You just have to believe it won’t kill you and get over that funny, slightly off-putting texture. I just need to convince my dad that forgiving his father is like eating a gross-looking but highly nutritious insect. The problem is that my dad, unlike my mom and me, has always been an extremely picky eater.

  Worry, like an eight-legged spider crawling inside my brain, continues to gnaw at me. I pace up and down in my bedroom for almost half the night, hatching a plan.

  24

  Pregnant

  When you grow up with a curse, you’re told to expect nonstop trouble. You’re told there’s nothing you can do because a Tiger girl always has horrendous luck with boys and excess facial hair. When I pluck and wax my Tiger mustache every forty-eight hours, I have sometimes wondered if there is an easy home remedy or Chinese spell to make it all go away.

  Honestly, I’m sick of being told who or what I should be. And I’m seriously annoyed about being told that there is no cure for my lifelong curse.

  This morning, as I keep stirring sugar in my coffee, I wonder whether I would be the same person if I hadn’t known I was a Tiger or if I didn’t barf all over the famous Madame Xing. I have always questioned superstitions, but I have honestly half believed them. I blame my lack of commitment to Chinese mythology on both of my parents.

  My mom says “they are bullshit,” but my dad wholly believes in them.

  If there’s one person who can change my dad’s mind and get him to forgive his father after so many years, it’s a famous fortune-teller. Preferably, the same one who predicted my fate. I’m certain that a professional named Madame Xing is the only person who can finally end our generation-long family feud.

  All night I have searched online and used translation sites, and I have figured out that there is a Madame Xing fortune-teller and face-reader on a tour of the magical, mystical Chengdu Hot Springs. I don’t know if it’s the same one, but she’s currently taking appointments with newborn babies and people with serious skin afflictions.

  Even if it’s not the same one, my dad doesn’t even have to know.

  “We’re going on a field trip,” I say when Frank shows up at the apartment for my tutoring lesson. He’s the only person who hasn’t lied or kept a secret from me in Beijing. So far, he seems trustworthy. Besides, he’s always going on about how I don’t have a worthy cause or passion. I continue, “I thought about what you said about me not making an effort, and I am going to change that. I really need your help, Frank. I need to fix my family.”

  I look at him hopefully.

  Subconsciously, I gnaw at my bottom lip.

  I nervously touch my hair, which I just washed with this amazing organic iris-infused and almond-scented shampoo that Ruby bought me as a surprise gift before she left for Milan for her costume fitting. The whole room smells like me: a sexy botanic garden in full bloom. I’m also wearing a body-fitting jumpsuit made of jungle-green chicken feathers, gifted to me by Auntie Yingfei. I look and feel like a fantastic parrot about to embark on a grand, outdoorsy adventure.

  “I don’t know,” he says, frowning slightly.

  “Come on,” I beg, touching his shoulder, and he glances around, as if worried someone will see us.

  “No one is home,” I say suggestively. “We can do whatever we want.”

  My comment causes Frank to seriously blush. I giggle at his reaction.

  “I’m still going whether or not you come with me,” I say.

  Sidling closer to him, I make my most wide-eyed, pleading face. I hope Frank is psychic and can understand how much I need his help. Also, it would just be easier if he could read my mind and we could just fool around whenever I wanted. For instance, I really want him to see me without this amazing jumpsuit on.

  Frank flushes again. He looks resigned.

  I show him the crumpled yuan from my grandpa. For once, I’m not spending it on something frivolous or even something that directly benefits me.

  “You can have all this if you come,” I offer. “Think of it as extra tutoring income, and you can tell me about the history of the hot springs!”

  Frank’s face slowly softens into a smile and he agrees.

  Enthusiastically, I hug him in thanks and his body eventually relaxes into mine. After a while, he embraces me back. It’s clear that this is not even a friend hug. I burrow my face deep into his shoulder, thinking wild and extremely dirty thoughts. My insides flutter nonstop. And we stay that way, inhaling the rich overriding scent of fresh irises and almonds. I wonder which one of us will step away first.

  “Iris, are you sure … ,” Frank begins in a low, low voice. I barely hear him.

  “You won’t regret it!” I promise quickly, worried that he’ll change his mind about coming with me to find the fortune-teller who can reunite my family.

  We take a two-hour taxi, a subway, and then another taxi up several bumpy, winding roads. For once, Frank isn’t talking about history or discussing Mandarin, and I watch the mountainside come into full view. China’s countryside is gorgeous. It’s like being inside one of the calligraphy paintings at the NAMOC. I’ve actually never been this excited about nature before. Is this why people climb Mount Everest? To become more worldly and sophisticated?

  As the car slowly climbs the mountain, it hits me that I’m really in the land of my ancestors. My father was born in a village and then he left his home so he could have a better chance of a new life. I tell myself that if I manage to find Madame Xing and get her to make my dad see reason, I’ll put in more effort to learn Mandarin, whatever it takes to make my dad and his parents happy again. Whatever it takes to put my whole family together. At the end of the summer, I want to all be sitting together slurping soup noodles and wontons.

  After three and a half hours of nonstop traveling, we finally stop at the Herijun Hot Spring Hotel, where apparently Madame Xing is holding private appointments for the week. There is no cell reception, but surely the hotel has Wi-Fi.

  “Where can I see Madame Xing?” I ask her assistant, who thankfully speaks English. She’s a young woman with thick glasses and spiky, pink hair holding a clipboard. There are at least fifty people in the lobby.

  “Do you have appointment?” she says.

  “No, but can I please make one? It’s an emergency.”

  “Sorry, we are full.”

  “But I just took two taxis and a really long subway ride to get here! I came all the way from the United States!”

  My outburst doesn’t impress the assistant. “There is waitlist for next year. I can take your name down. It’s 2,500 yuan to hold appointment.”

  Frank speaks to her in Chinese, but she still shakes her head. She sees my distressed expression, and her tone becomes kinder.

  “I’m very
sorry,” she says to me. “Madame Xing is very popular in China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, and even America these days. Everyone want her to predict their son and daughter success. You know, she can look at a baby and tell whether or not they’ll go to Harvard or Oxford. That’s how parents know what child to invest in. Bad facial features, bad future, as we say in China.”

  I stare at her beseechingly. “Please! That’s why I need to see her.”

  “You are having baby?” she says, her eyes widening in alarm. “You are teenage mother?”

  “Um … ,” I say, patting my stomach.

  It’s true I’ve been eating a lot in Beijing and those sesame pastries at breakfast did make me gassy.

  Normally I’d be upset if someone thought I was pregnant, but this is a full-on emergency. Before I can make up my mind whether or not to lie, the assistant offers, “We fit you in very early, first appointment tomorrow morning. What’s your name?”

  Frank is looking at me, speechless.

  I barely have a moment to blink away my guilty conscience.

  “Wang Weijun,” I say automatically. I grab Frank’s arm so he can’t react. “This is the teenage father, and he’s very worried that the baby will not bring him good luck.”

  Pretending to look incredibly worried, I learn in conspiratorially and whisper, “He won’t marry me and take care of the baby unless Madame Xing approves. I need her to give me a facial reading urgently.”

  I try to make myself look teary-eyed and eager. I think of how sad and horrified I felt when they cut me out of Ruby’s gown. I think of both my disappointed parents. I think about how upset and ashamed I really feel about not getting into any colleges. Even though I’ve pretended to myself that it doesn’t matter, it really does. Then I think about my grandma and grandpa crying and holding me. Real tears actually trickle from my eyes at the memory. I begin sniveling nonstop because I also feel extremely shitty for lying to the girl, like my parents have lied to me for seventeen years. But I promise myself that if this helps my family, I’ll work harder to learn Mandarin and study for the GED.

  I look at the assistant with wide, pleading eyes, in what I hope is my most pitying canine manner.

  I’m a lost dog, I keep telling myself. Please take me home.

  For all I know, being pregnant could very well happen. I could be some young single teenage mother whose only hope is a famous fortune-teller. What would my prospects be in China? Would I have no one to take care of me?

  Eventually, the assistant looks alarmed and nods sympathetically. “Poor thing! I will tell Madame Xing!”

  Then she speaks to the hotel clerk and tells him that we need a deluxe room with a view. I’m absolutely shocked that this was remarkably easy.

  “What did you do?” Frank asks when we are safely in our hotel room. It’s not as nice and a bit outdated compared to the Shangri-La, but admittedly I’m getting spoiled. There’s a comfy bed and a Western-style toilet, which makes me relieved.

  “I’m going to see her tomorrow,” I say, incredulous. “I can’t believe it!”

  “You realize that you aren’t pregnant, right?” Frank says, staring at me. His expression is an uneasy blend of shock, horror, and amusement.

  “Of course,” I say, wondering if an actual fortune-teller will know. I glance at my reflection in the mirror and then suck in my stomach. It is a bit rounder if I stand to the right. I’ll just have to slouch and cover my stomach with Frank’s extra-baggy hoodie.

  We have fourteen-plus hours to kill, so I suggest that we explore the rushing hot springs of Chengdu. We’re surrounded by a picturesque forest, boulders, and overhanging trees. Gagging silently, I do my best to ignore the sulfurous rotten egg odor. Magpies squawk and swoop around us, and it’s almost magical. Like being in an enchanted forest, away from all our problems.

  We don’t have any bathing suits, but everyone—tourists and locals—is practically naked anyway, so I strip down to my undies and bra and jump in! Besides, no one knows me in China. The water in the hot springs is bubbling and it feels like I’m being boiled alive in the most relaxing way possible.

  Frank stands there, watching me and looking stricken. He eventually joins me, but not before neatly folding his clothes by a tree.

  I splash him.

  He doesn’t react.

  Sticking my tongue out, I make a series of super-goofy faces at him. I cross my eyes, but Frank doesn’t seem to find any of it funny.

  I decide to splash him again, but he does nothing. In fact, he seems distracted. Super dejected, even. Like he’s just failed an important history test.

  “Smile,” I say, but Frank is looking way more serious and glum than usual.

  Come to think of it, he wasn’t particularly chatty in the taxi or subway ride, and he’s being paid to teach me by the hour.

  Nevertheless, I take a bunch of photos of us in the gorgeous hot springs with the pink-and-white cherry blossoms blooming behind us. It’s almost movie-romantic, except for the odorous smell. I cover my nose and mouth-breathe too loudly. I try to be quieter, but my sinuses are still clogged in the countryside.

  I blame my allergies for ruining a possibly romantic moment.

  As I snap photos, Frank is casually turning his broad frame toward me. His semi-sad expression makes me think of pugs, classrooms, and rules. But his expression is also thoughtful and ultra-serious and for whatever reason, I can’t take my eyes off him. The white fairy lights from the midday sun cause a shadow and reflect off his angular face, as if he’s hiding a secret. I keep thinking about the poem he recited at the party. He’s really not my type at all, I tell myself, but the voice of no self-control asks, but what if? What if Frank Liao is the one, but you have never dated Chinese dudes because you worried they were boring geeks? What’s the difference between hooking up with a star-student poet at a top university vs. a loser pothead?

  There’s something charming and fascinating and also scary about the humongous difference. Frank’s passion, his politics, his spontaneous confidence. I have never met anyone like him before. His intensity is dizzying. Looking at Frank is like parasailing three hundred feet in the air, dipping into the wind-whipped ocean, and being yanked back up in tandem into the blue-frosted sky.

  I take a bunch of pictures of unsmiling, surprisingly sexy Frank. There are so many photogenic ones to choose from. There’s still no cell signal and there’s no Wi-Fi, so I’ll just have to post portraits of Frank later.

  “Listen,” I finally say, curious, “do you like me or what? I really can’t tell.”

  Frank still isn’t looking at me. I splash water at him to catch his attention.

  He says nothing, but this time, he leans in and kisses me for the longest time with tongue. For a moment, I’m taken aback. I am dissolving. Then I can gasp. Oh god. The hot springs garbage smell is truly unbearable.

  Suddenly, Frank splashes me in the face.

  Stunned, I shriek and splash him back. He ducks.

  I almost wish someone was video-recording our interaction, because I’m sure we look extra beautiful with the exotic scenery unfolding around us. I have a theory that romantic encounters look even better to the people watching them than those who are directly involved. Getting hot water up your nose is not particularly funny or sexy.

  We stand very still and close together.

  Our breathing matches up in perfect sync. I’m prepared for an epic, life-changing makeout session. But then a black magpie swooping above us screeches mockingly. Something mushy, like a freshly flipped omelette, plops on my forehead. It’s smelly and bitter like nail polish remover. Suddenly, hot liquid drips into my eyeball.

  Frank stares at me, looking incredulous. He doesn’t say anything about the bird shit raining down my face like melted marshmallow fluff. Then he bursts out laughing. He can’t stop. I splash smelly water at him, and accidentally slip on a pebble, crashing backward into the white foamy toothpaste springs. This should seriously be a commercial for Colgate. Frank helps me up, grinning.
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  “Iris Wang, you are the strangest person I have met,” he says, and I’m a bit confused until he tells me that he means that there is no one quite like me in all of China’s twenty-three provinces.

  “Are you saying you like me as in like me?” I ask, and Frank smiles sheepishly.

  * * *

  Back in our hotel room, after scrubbing my hair fifteen times, I practically pounce on Frank and he literally has to push me off him. To be honest, I don’t get the hint and it takes me a while to notice that he’s trying to escape from under me. He looks utterly embarrassed. His face has turned the weirdo color of the filling in a stale red bean pastry. He has to hold me away at arm’s length while we both fight over his hotel robe. What just happened to the sexy, willing Frank from the hot springs?

  “Iris, we’ve only known each other for less than a week,” he quickly says, looking remorseful. “I’m also your highly paid tutor.”

  “It didn’t matter before,” I say, confused.

  “I had some time to think about it when you were in the shower.”

  As if I’m a slightly deranged serial killer, Frank slowly backs himself into the corner of the room. Regret transforms his face. “I’m really sorry.”

  This is the second time in a month I’ve been rejected by a boy.

  Do I smell? Is there still bird shit in my hair? Is it my ever-growing Tiger mustache? I wonder if I have any embarrassing nipple hair.

  I check myself quickly and I seem to be okay.

  “Tell me about yourself, then,” I insist. “What do you do for fun besides reciting poetry? Do you have any siblings?”

  Frank looks a bit hesitant. Like he wants to talk, but some internal digestive struggle is preventing him from talking. “There’s nothing interesting about me.”

  Astonished, I look directly at him. I cross my arms and feel like my mother, asking too many interrogation-type questions.

  He averts his eyes. He looks like he’s practically going to vomit!