Ghost Forest

by Pik-Shuen Fung

  He was an artist. He was very talented. The paintings he made looked like photographs, and he took photographs too. He wrote beautiful calligraphy. But he liked to drink, and when he drank, he had a bad temper. Once in a while he would come home for dinner and have a few drinks.

  That must have been hard for you, not having him around.

  We didn’t have time to think about those things back then.

  MORNING

  When I arrived at the hospital the next morning, my dad was wide awake in his bed, staring ahead through his wire-rimmed glasses. My mom had fallen asleep in the chair beside him.

  Do you want to listen to some music? I asked.

  Okay, he said.

  I scrolled through my phone and clicked on an album.

  This is by a jazz musician called Thelonious Monk, I said.

  I turned on the little speaker next to his pillow.

  This album is called Thelonious Alone in San Francisco, I said.

  A while later, poking out from under the blanket, my dad’s feet wagged from side to side. He still stared out the window with no expression.

  Outside, rain fell soft as mist.

  I closed my eyes, imagining each piano note as a fruit-flavored hard candy, drifting out of the speaker and floating around the room—cherry red, apple green, berry blue, and lemon yellow—dancing, hovering, from time to time flashing in the sun, and falling, falling to the ground one after another, clinking here and there in the bright light of the morning.

  MOM, SAY IT!

  My sister finished her exams at college and took the next flight to Hong Kong.

  As soon as she arrived and the nurses stepped out of the room, my dad motioned me and my sister over to the right side of his bed.

  You two, come stand here, he said.

  He motioned my mom over to the left. And you, come stand here.

  He reached over to his bedside table and lifted his wire-rimmed glasses with his thumb and forefinger. He put on his glasses and stared at the wall.

  Then he turned to me and my sister.

  I love you, he said to me.

  I love you, he said to my sister.

  My sister and I looked at each other before turning back to him.

  We love you too! we said.

  Then he faced my mom.

  I love you, he said.

  My sister and I swiveled to our mom, eyes wide.

  She stood there, looking at her feet. Then she started giggling.

  Mom! I said.

  Mom, say it! my sister said.

  We stared at her as she kept giggling.

  Then she said, I just farted!

  Later, my mom, my sister, and I walked to a restaurant near the hospital for lunch.

  While waiting to cross the street, I turned to my mom and asked, Was that the first time Dad ever told you he loved you?

  As the light turned green and my mom walked on, I thought I saw her smiling.

  THE STORY OF HOW MY PARENTS MET

  My sister and I have tried, many times over the years, to find out how our parents ended up together. Once, my sister spent the entire day poised like a T. rex, index fingers pointing forward, as she followed our mom around and poked her in the back, chanting, Tell us! Why won’t you tell us! Even then, all we got was a shrug and a smile.

  What I know is that after my mom graduated from high school, she worked as a bookkeeper at a stationery company for two years. When she decided to find a new job with a higher salary, she brought home a newspaper, combed through the listings, and mailed out letters to apply. The first company that wrote back was the office where my dad worked.

  MY MOM SAYS:

  I wasn’t supposed to have any children, you know. When I was twenty-one, my right lung collapsed. The first doctor I saw said I needed surgery, but the second doctor I saw said I needed injections. I decided to get the injections, so every night after work, I went from my office in Kwun Tong to the doctor’s clinic in Central. Luckily, the subway in Hong Kong was built by then.

  All the nurses had different techniques. The good nurses got the shot on the first try. But some nurses took so many tries. One time, one particular nurse couldn’t get the shot inside my elbows, so she moved to the back of my hand. I felt a pain like an electric shock, so she stopped right away. Another nurse told me that the last nurse had bad eyesight. Back then, I didn’t know to speak up. Back then, I could have said, I don’t want this nurse to do my injection. In the end, I got a lot more than twenty-five shots. I was so relieved when it was over.

  But a year later, my left lung collapsed. I was at the office when I felt a loud pop in my left side. Every time I took a breath, I felt the air clawing down inside me. When I stood up, it wasn’t as painful, but the moment I lay down on my bed, the air was like a big wind blowing paper cuts inside my windpipes. And I don’t know why, I couldn’t stop coughing. So I had to go back to the clinic, and get the injections all over again.

  After my lungs collapsed three times—right, then left, then right—the doctor said to me, If you get married in the future, don’t have any children. It’s too dangerous if you get pregnant and your lung suddenly ruptures. If you really must have a baby, then you have to get a C-section. And at most, you can have one baby only.

  By the time my lungs collapsed for the fourth time, that doctor had immigrated to Australia, so I found a new lung specialist, who looked at the X-ray and prescribed me some medicine.

  I asked, What about the injections?

  He said, Injections? There are no injections for this. Just take the medicine, and you’ll be fine.

  I took the medicine and recovered. I thought, Why did I get all those injections before?

  Then one night, at a big family dinner, your aunt told me about a miracle herbalist who had just come to Hong Kong from the mainland. When I went to see this herbalist, I asked him if it was true that I couldn’t have children because of my lung condition. He said, That won’t be a problem after you take these herbs!

  Around this time, your dad told me he wasn’t feeling well. Every day around two o’clock at the office, he felt very tired and unable to move. I convinced him to go see the herbalist with me. After checking your dad’s pulse, the herbalist said, Around two o’clock every day you feel very tired. It’s because your liver has swollen by an eighth of an inch.

  We went back to see the herbalist every Sunday. We got married one year later.

  Actually, in 1985, I went to see a fortune teller, the one who named you after you were born. He was very famous at the time. He said, Your current boyfriend is such a good boy. Doesn’t smoke, doesn’t drink, doesn’t gamble. I can tell by the shape of your nose.

  He asked me if I had another boyfriend before. I said yes. He said, Good, because if not, then you will break up. But since you’ve had a breakup already, then this is the right one. Next year is the right year. Next year, get married.

  He said, You have three daughters and two sons in your life. Whether you want to give birth to all of them is up to you.

  THE GREEN CURTAIN

  We sat in the hospital room, reading emails on the hospital’s Wi-Fi, my mom, my sister, and I. My dad lay in his bed.

  What do you need? my mom said. Do you need something?

  I looked up and saw my dad fumbling his hand around the space beside his pillow.

  Do you want me to call the nurses? my mom said.

  He kept pawing at the net of tubes and cords, until he grasped a black rectangular box and pushed the red button with his thumb.

  A minute later, a nurse walked in and asked how he was doing.

  He met her eyes for a second and looked back at the wall ahead.

  What would you like? the nurse asked.

  I looked at my mom to see if she knew what was happening.

  Then a se
cond nurse walked into the room.

  What’s going on? she said.

  I don’t know, the first nurse said.

  Did he poo?

  Did you poo?

  You did, didn’t you?

  I think he did.

  Let’s see.

  The two nurses stepped forward and pulled the pale green curtains all the way around the bed, clinking the silver curtain hooks.

  Let’s see what’s going on, one of them said.

  From where I sat, through the thin wavering crack between the curtains, I saw my dad close his eyes as they turned him on his side and pulled down his pants.

  FAVORITE COLOR

  My mom asked me and my sister to watch over my dad while she went home to take a shower. My sister and I sat on each side of the hospital bed, resting our chins in our hands and our elbows on the railings.

  Dad, I have a quiz for you, I said. The first question is, if you could choose only one, would you rather get a compliment or a hug?

  I’m not interested in this quiz, my dad said. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.

  Dad, what’s your favorite color? my sister asked a few minutes later.

  Brown, my dad said, eyes still closed.

  My sister and I looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

  Later my sister said, Who says their favorite color is brown?

  THE SPANISH RESTAURANT

  I have a proposal, my dad said. But I don’t know if you’ll be open to it or not.

  What is it? I asked.

  Raise me up first, he said.

  He likes the bed at seventy degrees, my mom said.

  I looked around at all the buttons near the bed.

  What? How do I know if the bed is at seventy degrees?

  You have to use the level app on your phone, she said.

  I found the level app on my phone and raised his bed to seventy degrees.

  How’s this?

  Good, he said. I heard there is a famous Spanish restaurant not far from this hospital. It’s expensive and celebrities go there. I want you to take your mom and your sister there for dinner tonight.

  I’ll call and make a reservation.

  No, I don’t want you to make a reservation.

  Why? It’ll be easier if I call in advance.

  No, I want to see if you’ll manage to get a table.

  What do you mean?

  It depends on how confident you act. You might have to speak to them in English.

  He turned to my mom.

  I want to test her marketing skills, he said, chuckling.

  I looked at him, then at my mom, then back at him again. Was he serious? I looked at his hair, sticking out in all directions. Then I followed the thin tube of oxygen curving into a loop before running up into his nostrils, and the pale yellow albumin on a drip. What was wrong with him? Was he delirious? Why in the world would he want to test me now? I wanted to walk out of the room.

  She’s only here for a few more nights, my mom said. Why don’t we go to the Spanish restaurant another time?

  SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT

  The day before I flew back to London, my dad said: There’s something I want to talk to you about.

  What is it? my mom asked.

  No, not you, you can’t listen. Go do something else, he said. He motioned for me to sit next to him.

  I sat down next to the hospital bed.

  I’ve been thinking about this for a very long time, he said. And I just don’t understand.

  What is it? I asked.

  I looked at his hands clasped together, papery yellow skin on bones.

  You’ve been this way since you were a child, he said. You seem cheerful when you see me, but I can see in your eyes that it’s not real. When you ask me questions, I can hear you’re not really asking me questions. I keep wondering, what have I done wrong?

  FATHERS

  I asked my grandma if she saw her father again after the war.

  She said, The last time I saw my father was in 1962. Through a friend of a friend of a friend, he found my address in Hong Kong.

  What did you talk about?

  Nothing. We talked about nothing, and then I never saw him again. Sometimes I wonder if he’s gone yet. Well, I’ll be ninety soon.

  ICU

  There was a waiting list for livers in Hong Kong, so the doctor advised my dad to transfer to a hospital in Hangzhou, where he could get a transplant sooner. My parents flew to Hangzhou a few months later, and I booked my flights to meet them there.

  My dad became unconscious shortly after and was put in the ICU. They said that maybe it was from the pressure of flying.

  The visiting hours in the ICU were only between two and three o’clock in the afternoon. I was relieved. This was the only way my mom would rest at night.

  In the taxi, from the airport to the hotel, I left the window open so I could feel the rush of the wind on the highway. The sky was thick and gray, and roses streaked bright pink along the roads. I hadn’t been back since my semester of studying here. I would have never guessed that six years later I would return to see my dad in the local hospital.

  I arrived at the hospital fifteen minutes early, and waited with my mom outside the doors to the ICU. There were several other families waiting. As soon as it turned two o’clock, a nurse unlocked the doors and poked her head out, and we all rushed toward her. We stood in the entryway, a group of families, putting on plastic gowns, plastic caps, plastic gloves, and plastic shoe covers. All of the plastic was baby blue.

  I walked with my mom toward the room directly across from the entrance.

  My dad lay on the bed near the window. There was a nurse standing next to him, writing on a clipboard. The other bed was empty and untouched. I wondered when they changed the sheets on it.

  My dad had been unconscious for days. His body was thinner than I remembered, and curled into a fetal position.

  Say, I’m here, Dad, my mom said.

  I’m here, Dad, I said.

  You have to say it louder so he can hear you. My mom leaned in close to his face.

  We’re here now, she said. We’re here! Give us a sign! If you can hear us, give us a sign!

  I stood there, nodding and patting his hand.

  Call your dad back, my mom said. You have to call him back, loudly.

  We’re here, Dad! I said. We’re here!

  Did you hear that? my mom said. We’re here!

  We took turns leaning in and shouting, but as soon as the nurse walked out of the room, my mom glanced at the door. Then she pulled a small glass spray bottle out of her pocket.

  This is from the temple, she said

  She sprayed the water in the room a few times, in all different directions, muttering something, then sprayed it on a cotton ball, and dabbed that onto my dad’s forehead.

  This is from the temple, she whispered.

  I waited for my dad to wake up.

  Then, it was three o’clock.

  Later, my mom and I walked to a restaurant by the West Lake for dinner. My mom didn’t want to look at the menu, so I ordered us clear fish soup, steamed silken tofu, and a big pot of osmanthus tea to share. While we waited for the food, my mom stared out the window at the weeping willows, not saying a word. I asked her what was wrong.

  I made a mistake, she said.

  What happened? I asked.

  I spoke to the Feng Shui master, and he said that we aren’t supposed to call your dad back while he is unconscious. We aren’t supposed to shout at him. I did it so many times. And we aren’t supposed to do that.

  It’s okay, I said. You didn’t know.

  She shook her head and closed her eyes.

  THIS PLACE

  The next day, the nurses informed us that my dad r
egained consciousness. My mom and I entered the ICU with my sister and uncle, who had arrived in the morning. We all put on our baby blue puffy outfits, and followed the nurse down a different corridor. My dad lay there—the room shone with sunlight—his eyes darted among our faces. His lips were stretched around a ventilator, and he turned his head from side to side.

  It looked like he wanted to say something, so I wrote out all the letters of the alphabet on a piece of paper and told him to blink when I pointed to the letter he wanted. After two letters, he shook his head and kicked his feet. He started to write Chinese characters with his index finger on the bed. My mom and uncle tried to guess the characters, but they couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. I told him to write English letters so that I could help.

  In a circle around the bed, we all bent over my dad’s index finger, as he wrote letters on the mattress, one by one.

  He wrote the first letter.

  W ?

  He shook his head.

  N ?

  He shook his head again.

  L ?

  He kept writing with his finger on the bed.

  Finally, we guessed M.

  Now he closed his eyes slowly, pausing.

  It’s M! The first letter is M! I said.

  I felt like I had won a prize.

  We leaned in again to watch his finger.

  O ?

  No, it’s not O.

  U ?

  U. I think it’s U.

  S ?

  T ?

  Must! My sister and I shouted. Must what, Dad? Must what?

  He looked exhausted from the writing. It must have taken us ten minutes to get here, and we were only at the first word.

  He kept writing.

  The next letter took us a while, until we said G, and he closed his eyes slowly again.

  Then, O.