Bitter Melon Read online

  As she talks, she squeezes harder, her nails digging deeper into my skin. “This is our pact,” Mom says. “You understand?”

  I nod.

  “Answer me!”

  “Yes,” I say, my voice barely a squeak.

  “Yes who?”

  “Yes, Mommy.”

  Finally, she lets go of me. She leaves four white ovals on each arm where her fingertips were. Gradually, they fade, leaving behind four crescent indentations from her fingernails.

  “No one can love you like your mother,” Mom says. “Just remember that.” Then she holds one of the boxes to my face. “I know you won’t fail me. And when I die, all this will be yours!”

  The sparkle of the jewels, like the sound of Mom’s voice, is dizzying. I look around at all the safe-deposit boxes lining the walls like the ash containers in Chinese cemeteries. What treasures from the past lie hidden in all those little boxes? What hopes and dreams for the future?

  As we exit the bank, I open the door for Mom. The harsh wind makes it heavy, almost impossible to open. The wind cuts right through my jacket and turns my cheeks and fingertips to ice. Silver rays of light peek out from behind the clouds as the sun melts the thick layer of white-gray overcast that blankets the city most days of the year. When the East Bay finally cools down, leaving a little summer for us, it will be late September or October. We’ll have our long-awaited Indian summer, a week of azure blue sky and golden sunshine, temperatures in the eighties or above. But we’ll be back in school by then, buried under books and deadlines, no time to see the blueness of the sky or feel the warm rays bake our cold skin. And by the time school is over and we run out to the beach in shorts, we’ll be met with the bitter fog, a big white dragon pulled in from the ocean by the ninety-degree heat of the inland cities of Oakland, Concord, and Walnut Creek.

  “Could you spare some change, ma’am?”

  I am not prepared for this voice beside me. It is almost inaudible, easily brushed off as imagined. It comes from a homeless man sitting on the ground against a building, bundled in a knit mustard-colored hat and a green ski jacket. His curly hair looks knotted and matted. There is dirt in his clothes, on his face, and under his fingernails. As the wind whips the other way, it brings with it his smell, that familiar homeless smell, a combination of cigarette smoke, booze, and pee. His stench repels me, yet I am held captive by the contrast between him and us. We have a treasure hidden in the bank. We have each other. He has nothing. As night falls, we will be safe in our cozy apartment. Where will he retreat: in a shop doorway, under a graffitied bus stop facility, or under a tree in Golden Gate Park?

  Slowly, I reach into my pocket. But Mom grabs my hand and pulls me away.

  “His mother should have helped him more. And he should help her more,” Mom says. That’s the problem with this country. No family loyalty. At work, you should hear what my coworkers say. When kids turn eighteen, their parents want them to leave home. When parents get old, their kids just dump them in a nursing home, ka-chunk, like a greasy, half-eaten Big Mac into the trash.

  “You are surrounded by all these bad influences. I try to protect you from their contamination. Your papers say American, but your blood is Chinese. You inherit my genes. You eat my rice. You will mold to my shape, walk down the right path.”

  She doesn’t mention that my father is Chinese too, but that once he brought us here, he was infected by these bad influences and left. She doesn’t mention that half of my genes are his. As we make our way to the bus stop, I imagine the relentless sheet of wind sweeping me off my feet and carrying me away. Mom tries to hold on, but her brittle fingers break off. I see the look of horror in her eyes, her mouth forming a big ghastly O, her fingerless hand still reaching out to me. I see her disembodied fingers still digging into my arm, nails embedded in my flesh.

  I then wrap my fingers around Mom’s. Fortunately, they are still intact, though icy and purple from the cold. She and I both have chronically cold hands and feet. She hates having cold hands and never lets them leave her pockets when she goes out. She only took them out to hold on to me. Though my hands are cold too, I rub hers to warm them up. We rub each other’s hands furiously, cold hands warming cold hands, as we wait for the Clement Street bus.

  Chapter One

  It is the first day of school, and my thighs are Jell-O-like and burning from all the stair climbing. That’s what happens when you have first-period religion on the first floor, second-period French on the third floor, third-period AP government on the basement floor, and fourth-period calculus on the third floor. That’s also what happens when you’re tired from being on the second day of your menstrual cycle.

  I step into my calculus classroom. Like all the other classrooms in this building, it has hard and shiny dark green floors, dingy white walls, black chalkboards, and a big clock on the wall, the kind that is in every classroom from kindergarten through high school. There are fewer than ten girls inside. Most students finish off senior year with only precalculus, so this doesn’t surprise me. Everyone is seated in the back of the classroom or off to the sides, leaving a big hole front and center. The most convenient seat is right in front of Theresa Fong, who is sitting back and center. Theresa, the girl who got 1350 on her SAT, is the daughter of Mom’s best friend, Nellie.

  Whenever Mom compares me to Theresa, who is always superior, Auntie Nellie responds in kind, pointing out my good traits and describing how Theresa can’t compare. When Mom compares Theresa’s willowy frame to my more heavyset one, Auntie Nellie points out that at five four, I am tall for a Chinese person, unlike Theresa, who is only five feet tall. When Mom praises Theresa’s modesty and obedience, Auntie Nellie praises my social skills and charm. For good measure, she adds that I will attract a husband faster for these reasons, so Mom won’t have to worry. Then Mom argues that it is better to have a daughter who cleaves to your side for life than to put all your effort into one who will cleave to someone else and give you nothing in return. Mom and Auntie Nellie argue about this with the same intensity with which they argue about who gets to pay the dim sum bill.

  The truth is I think that Auntie Nellie is just disagreeing with Mom out of Chinese modesty. Nellie sometimes puts down Theresa as a means of indirectly bragging about her. “Oh, my son is so lazy. Theresa got a five on her AP calculus exam. Ben only got a four. If my dense daughter can get a five, then Ben could have gotten a five if he had put in some effort.” Then Nellie waits for Mom to praise Theresa’s intelligence, which is the same as praising Nellie for being an amazing mother. But Mom never does that for me. The things she criticizes me for in public are the same things she criticizes me for in private.

  If Theresa has already passed her calculus exam, then why is she here? Maybe she’s volunteering as a teacher’s assistant. There was talk about her doing that last year. Great. More ammunition for Mom.

  Fortunately, I have my own defense system. In grade school I learned how to smile at Auntie Nellie but ignore Theresa whenever Mom bragged about Theresa’s accomplishments. I learned to point out Theresa’s small mistakes to send Nellie into a tirade criticizing her. By freshman year I learned how to pretend that I had plans with other friends so I couldn’t hang out with Theresa. That only provided Nellie with more ammunition to point out that I had better social skills than Theresa.

  Theresa sits with perfect, good-girl posture. Her long, thick black hair is pulled up with a ponytail holder, the kind with two transparent red cubes. My hair, in contrast, is so thin that those ponytail holders would slip right off. Mom has threatened to dye my brownish hair black so it can look more like Theresa’s. Theresa doesn’t look anything like Nellie, who is short but plump, even more so than Mom. Nellie’s thin hair is frizz-permed to add volume. Another difference between Theresa and her mother is their fashion sense. Theresa wears quiet colors, like pastels, camel, and light gray. Nellie, on the other hand, wears neon jogging suits. You’d never lose her in a crowd. Theresa must take after her dad, who is often out of town
on business.

  As I approach my desk, Theresa moves her book bag so I can sit down without having to step over it.

  See, Fei Ting, how thoughtful Theresa is, not like you, always thinking only of yourself. See how she steadies her grandmother as she walks, how she opens the door for her mother? You never do these things unless you’re told.

  I mentally swat at my mother’s buzzing words and sit down in a huff, keeping my back to Theresa. Theresa is nice only for show. No one can really be that good.

  Then the teacher walks in. She’s petite but she has a large presence. She’s wearing a crinkled velvet royal blue top and black pants. As she approaches me, I hear the cluck, cluck of her heels and notice that she’s wearing big high-heeled black platform boots. Her clothes look like they’re straight out of the Haight Ashbury area. I start to feel nervous. This is the first teacher I’ve ever had who wears neither a habit nor khakis and a button-down shirt. This is also the first teacher I’ve ever had who looks under thirty. The royal blue of her top makes her blue eyes electric. They sparkle behind her black cat-eye glasses, which have small rhinestones embedded in the corners. Her long, straight black hair contrasts sharply with the radiant paleness of her skin. As she passes me, she leaves behind the faint fragrance of perfume and cigarettes.

  The new teacher turns quickly and writes her name on the chalkboard: Ms. Taylor. Then she faces us. The school bell rings, accenting her turn.

  “This is my name,” she says, pointing towards the chalkboard. “Now let’s get to know you. Starting with you,” she says, gesturing to the student in the far corner. “Please state your name and what your goals are after you graduate from high school.”

  My mouth goes dry. I’m used to being invisible in class and standing out through my papers and exams. Frantically, I rehearse my own response. Most of the girls state the party line, that they want to go to college. A few know exactly what college they want to attend. One girl picks Mills College, a private women’s college in Oakland. Another mentions Stanford. A few know what they want to major in and what careers they wish to pursue.

  What astounds me is Ms. Taylor’s ability to remember people. Each time we finish a row, Ms. Taylor repeats the names of everyone who has spoken. When someone mentions a specific field, she offers encouragement and suggestions for schools or internships. She seems to know everything.

  Then it’s my turn. “My name is Frances Ching, and my goal is to go to UC Berkeley and pursue a career in medicine.” I make my voice calm, to mask my pounding heart and sweating hands.

  “Excellent, Frances. Have you ever volunteered at a hospital?”

  I shake my head.

  “You might want to try that at some point, to have the experience of dealing with patients and being in a hospital setting.”

  Her advice makes sense, but it sounds as attractive as eating unseasoned seaweed on cold day-old rice. I am swamped with schoolwork. I don’t have time to volunteer. Besides, I spend every day with Mom. I don’t want to be around more sick people. Then I wonder if Ms. Taylor can hear my thoughts. I wonder if Mom can too.

  Then Ms. Taylor turns to Theresa, the other straight-A student in the room.

  “Uh … my name is Theresa, and after high school … um …”

  If only Mom could see us now. I suppress the urge to smile.

  Before I can savor this moment, however, I notice the expression on Theresa’s face. Her eyes are round and wide. The faintest traces of tears are puddling along her lower lids. Her bottom lip is quivering. I want to whisper in her ear, Say doctor. Say lawyer. Say business. Say Berkeley or Stanford or just plain college. Make up something vague.

  “Um …” And finally she says it: “I don’t know.”

  What a horrible answer. Ms. Taylor pauses. I hold my breath.

  “You know what, Theresa?” Ms. Taylor says. “That was the most courageous answer I’ve heard so far.”

  Theresa’s jaw drops. So does mine.

  “Did you know that most college freshmen go in as undeclared?” Ms. Taylor says to the class. “Many college seniors approach graduation not knowing what they want to do. This is normal. You’re at a time in your lives of figuring out who you are. ‘I don’t know’ is a good place to start. Theresa here demonstrated honesty and courage in her response. Good work, Theresa.”

  My response, which seemed smart and poised at the time, now seems tinny and hollow.

  Ms. Taylor picks up her chalk again and writes Speech. That puzzles me. How does speech relate to taking the AP calculus exam, a totally silent endeavor?

  “Okay. Why speech?” she asks, as if reading my thoughts. Her bright eyes shine with intensity. Everyone is silent, but Ms. Taylor remains undaunted. “Why is speech important?” she asks. Again, more silence, not even the sound of breathing. Ms. Taylor walks slowly from one end of the room to the other, the low cluck, cluck of her boots shattering the quiet as she eyes us one by one. Each of us is seared into her memory, where we can’t hide.

  “All right, then. Let’s take another approach,” she says. “What makes humans different from other animals?”

  The only answers I can come up with are so obvious that they sound stupid. Humans walk on two legs, not four. We hold jobs and watch TV.

  Then a memory comes to me from years ago. I was twelve then. It was a damp, gray day. Mom and I were at the zoo. We were surrounded by trash smells and animal smells, like wet fur and fresh urine. I was standing several yards from a polar bear and her cub. The bears were a dirty yellow, not snow white as I had expected. Mom was holding my hand. She shook it to get my attention. “Fei Ting,” she said, “see all these animals, tigers, monkeys, bears, and seals? They nurse their young for only a year or two. In just a year or two, the babies grow up and the mothers abandon them, and that’s that. But a human mother never turns her back on her baby. The baby eats up her mother’s food and money for the next twenty years. But even then, their relationship doesn’t die. Then mother and child switch roles, and the child cares for her mother.”

  “Frances?”

  I nearly jump in my seat. My knees start shaking. A bead of sweat trickles down the gutter in my back. I reach my mental hand into the magic hat, grope desperately, and pull out … nothing. I decide to try Theresa’s response.

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  I shake my head.

  “If you decide to share it, let us know.” Then she turns her attention to the class once again. “Language, ladies,” Ms. Taylor says to us. “Language is what separates humans from other animals. Language gives us the ability not only to talk about the present but to reflect on the past and plan for the future. We are also the only fiction-creating animal. Because of human language and human imagination, we can create and recreate our identities and our cultures. Through language we can exchange ideas. In so doing, we discover what is true for us and we can speak those truths.”

  Truths? How can “truth” be plural? Isn’t there only one truth, like one true God?

  “So, how is this important to us as women?” Ms. Taylor says.

  Again, silence. I want to hear more and am annoyed by the pause.

  “Language is power,” says Ms. Taylor. “We as women have the power to define ourselves and persuade others, to change the ideas of our society and to pass that down for generations to come.”

  However unconventional this class may be, I feel excited. I have a feeling that this will be my favorite class this semester, if not my best class ever.

  “You ladies are lucky,” Ms. Taylor continues. “You’re going to St. Elizabeth’s, an elite all-girls school. Here you will be heard. Here you have the chance to nurture and strengthen your own voice. That’s why you’re enrolled in this speech course. To develop your own unique, individual voices.”

  Speech course?

  Ms. Taylor continues, listing and describing the different genres of speech and how we will cover each genre during the course of the class. Panicked, I reach fo
r my computer printout schedule. First period, Theology, Sr. Mary Rose, room 102. Second period, French, Ms. Rochette, room 304. Third period, Advanced Placement Government, Mr. Robinson, room 12. Fourth period, Speech, Ms. Taylor, room 301. Fifth period, Advanced Placement English, Ms. Taylor again, room 302. Sixth period, Physics, Ms. Trent, room 204. Calculus isn’t even on the schedule. I read my classes over, as if doing so will cause calculus to materialize. But it doesn’t. I will have to talk to Ms. Costello and fix this.

  I imagine having to force myself to pay attention in calculus class and do my homework, as I have for the last several years in other classes, while being deprived of this special feeling. To console myself, I separate the world of tomorrow, when I have to switch classes, from the world of today, when I am still enrolled.

  The school bell blares. Usually, at the sound of the bell, the students make a mad stampede out the door, nearly leaving footprints on the teacher’s back. But today everyone stays seated, entranced by Ms. Taylor’s spell.

  “This week, we will practice impromptu in class. Meanwhile, for your homework, I want you to prepare your first original oratory speech.” Then she goes on to explain what “original oratory” means.

  Slowly, as if stunned, the girls gather their belongings and exit the classroom. As I turn to get my book bag, I notice Theresa standing behind me, her book bag hanging over her shoulder. I move aside to let her pass. She shakes her head and gestures for me to go first. I nod and gather my stuff.

  Theresa smiles at Ms. Taylor and gives a small wave.

  Ms. Taylor beams back. “See you tomorrow, Theresa. You too, Frances.”