Illustration by Arty Guava (aka Lay Hoon)
On my sixth birthday, Ma and I sat across from each other in the kitchen, waiting for Ba. Late again. Ma drummed her fingers with fury on our wobbly folding table and sighed into her tea cup. Every crease in her face spelled disappointment. I knew better than to make excuses for him.
Earlier in the evening, Ma had roasted ginger chicken. My favorite. The scent of garlic and lemon still hovered in the air. It was growing dark outside. We lived in a two-story apartment complex, not far from the blinking lights and slot machines in Reno, built when cinder blocks and iron railings were in fashion. It had been a rainy fall and dampness seeped into our rat-infested home.
Ma stood up with a huff, opened a cupboard and returned to the table. Her hair was pinned in a bun atop her head like a teacake and she was wearing a checkered apron with grease stains. She handed me a small cube, wrapped in red tissue paper. Inside the box, a rabbit figurine sat on a pin cushion. About the size of my index finger, made of jade. Probably fake but it had a lifelike face: marbled green with bright eyes, alert and curious.
“It’s your lucky sign, Tuzi,” she said. Rabbit, the year I was born. Ma was always talking about luck, like it was something she could churn out of a superstition wheel. She hung crystals, squirreled gold coins into corners and played lucky lottery numbers on weekends. She clung to the notion a raft of riches would arrive to rescue her stranded self.
In our home, we didn’t have religion—only luck and whiskey. I hopped up from the table to hug her, “Xièxiè!”
Then I cupped Tuzi with both hands, protecting her delicate ears.
“Be careful, Mei,” Ma said in a low voice. “She’s fragile.”
*
In an old tale passed down from mothers to daughters, there lives a rabbit on the moon who is the faithful companion of Chang’e, the moon goddess. Chang’e was banished to the moon when she stole her husband’s immortality elixir. She was exiled to a life of loneliness. The loyal rabbit Tuzi mixes the mortar and pestle every night without protest and they repeat this dance for eternity. Couldn’t that be one definition of love?
*
It was well past my bedtime when Ba came tripping in the door. His face ballooned red and snake eyes glazed. He bent down on one knee toward me, his breath sour like vinegar, and tugged on my pigtails.
“Give your Ba a kiss,” he said. I scurried away to hide behind Ma, burying my head in her apron.
“You missed Mei’s birthday dinner,” Ma said, her voice boiling with spite. “Where’s your paycheck?”
“Always want to talk money, money, money,” he said, tottering toward a chair. “No fun.”
“I’m serious. Did you spend it all again?”
“Give me a break,” he said. “I played poker after work. So what?”
She faced him and pulled out his pockets. “All gone? You no good donkey.”
They often argued about money, his drinking and betting on horse races. Ma’s back stiffened.
He laughed. “I’ll win everything back next time.”
“Next time?” she screeched, high pitched like a mother crow. She raised her arms toward his bulging neck.
His right arm shot up and he slapped her so hard her small body crumbled to the floor. I screamed, fearing she was dead. Tuzi tumbled out of my hands onto the tile.
Ma rose slowly, her eyes blazing. She raced to the counter and fished a butcher’s knife from a drawer. Holding it high above her head, her voice turned deep and steady. “Get out.”
His eyes bulged and he backed toward the front door, raising his hands in surrender and winking at me. “Okay, okay, I’ll go.”
The door slammed.
“Go to hell,” she muttered. Red marks stained her cheeks. I picked Tuzi up off the floor. One of her ears had broken clean off.
*
For weeks after my birthday, Ma scrubbed the tiles on her bare knees and hands, as if she could rid herself of memories by bleach and willpower. The kitchen reeked of chlorine, but it was never enough.
Every time there was a jingle at the door, I ran to the front clutching my one-eared Tuzi, thinking Ba had returned and Ma’s cleaning streak would end. But it was always a yapping stray dog or a garbage truck barreling down the street.
Never Ba.
*
“Get out!” shouted Mr. Pat, the bus driver who smelled like roasted peanuts. His baritone voice carried over the din of the hailstorm and children’s voices. He swerved the yellow bus to a jerky stop in front of our apartment complex.
I was frozen at the sight out the window. All the kids stared, their noses pressed against the foggy glass. My cheeks burned dragon fire. I pulled my raincoat hood down descending the steps to hide my humiliation.
Ma was standing in the front courtyard in a cotton nightgown. Spinning in circles with her arms outstretched. The flimsy fabric was soaked through, her nipples on display.
“Why are you getting all wet, Ma?” I ran toward her, hoping I could cover her up with my embrace.
“Mei, let’s dance!” she grabbed my arms. “God is throwing a party. Can you hear the glorious music?”
“Why are you talking about God? You’re scaring me. Let’s go inside. Please!” I begged and yanked her toward the door. Her feet sank like anchors in a grassy, muddy sea. Had she suddenly discovered religion?
She threw her head up toward the sky, a black tangle of hair matted to her face. “I’m alive! Look!” Lightning drew closer. The storm was surging with an unholy vengeance and Ma was electrified by its spell. Dirt streaked her lips, which were open in astonishment.
I felt a tingle up my arms. My tears mixed with the raging rain and I shivered as if I were naked too. Salt and blood swirled in my mouth. Blood dribbled down my chin from where I had bitten my lip.
Police sirens blared. Red and blue lights blinked onto our street. A pair of officers took her away.
I went inside and crawled to my bed, leaving a trail of caked mud. I fell into a feverish sleep with wild dreams.
*
In an alternate universe, Ma’s brain would not get scrambled. She would not have bad years, then even worse ones. She would not bounce in and out of Bellwether, spouting bible verses mangled with paranoid rants.
Instead, we would spend our days doing our catalog of greatest hits: baking snickerdoodles, watching tearjerkers, ransacking thrift stores, throwing costume parties, wearing drag queen dresses and singing karaoke until our lungs hurt. Everyone would call us the dynamic duo praising Ma’s mind-reading ability, a superhero of a mother. This Ma would pack peanut butter sandwiches in my lunchbox, crusts cut off. This Ma would leave chocolate kisses on my pillow at bedtime. This Ma would let me skip school to go ice skating and eat the whole bag of marshmallows with hot cocoa. For my birthday, we would drive all the way to Disneyland. We would clutch hands and scream on Space Mountain until joyful tears rained down our snot-covered faces.
We would fly to the moon.
*
Hunger woke me from a deep sleep. My belly rumbled like a steam train. It was past noon. The sun was bright outside my window. I listened for Ma’s padded footsteps in the hallway or clanging pans when she made me congee and eggs for breakfast. Only an eerie silence greeted my ears.
Tuzi rested next to me in bed, small and slightly cracked. Even though I was wrapped in a quilt, a chill descended, snaking its way down my spine. It was a strange sensation to wake up without Ma. She always told me when to get up, brush my teeth and get ready for school. Ma didn’t trust the neighbors. She didn’t want them nosing in our business. I didn’t know where Ba had disappeared to, and now Ma was gone too. I choked back a fountain of tears, telling myself to be brave for Tuzi’s sake.
My stomach gurgled, as if possessed by a water dragon. I remembered the time Ma packed a picnic for us to eat at the pond. Each time she pulled a treat out of her basket, I clapped in delight at her sorcery. Her eyes sparkled, glistening like the ripples in the pond. We feasted on chicken feet, orange slices, custard tarts and tea eggs. We fed the geese a stale loaf of bread, throwing bits toward the water’s edge, and laughed at the way they honked and flapped their wings with giddiness. Her happiness was contagious.
In my bedroom, I said to Tuzi, “Let’s find something to eat,” then carried her to the kitchen. I scrambled onto the counter and opened the cabinets, plucking out my favorites: a tin of butter cookies, cheese slices, a banana, a jar of peanut butter, raisins and carrots.
I ferried the loot onto a blanket on the floor and sat Tuzi across from me, like two guests at a tea party. I shoved bite after bite into my mouth, not worrying about the falling crumbs, until I was stuffed with satisfaction. I cracked the carrots in half to share with Tuzi. Her chest appeared to balloon with pride. Sweetness lingered on my tongue.
*
The next morning, a sharp banging at the front door startled me. Carrying Tuzi in my hands, I ran to the door and threw it wide open, hoping Ma had come back for me.
But it wasn’t Ma. Only Mr. Yu, Ma’s creepy boss from the laundromat. He had mean eyes, a bald head and wore a faded brown bowling shirt someone had probably left behind years ago. He smelled like sardines and cigarettes.
“Where’s your Ma?”
“She’s at the hospital.”
“When will she be back?”
I shrugged and he gave me a fake grin.
“You can come work for me then.”
“No, I’m a kid,” I said. His sour odor made my stomach somersault. He was a Bad Man.
“I don’t care, if your arms and legs work, then you can do the job,” he said, pinching my shoulder.
I clutched Tuzi to my chest, tears spilling like rain. I wished I could fly away like the geese at the pond.
Suddenly Tuzi leaped out of my arms and puffed to life-size, using her strong paws to shove the Bad Man out the front door. The Bad Man fell, knocked off his feet in surprise.
Quickly, I locked the door and collapsed to the ground, sobbing in relief.
*
Squealing tires confirmed Mr. Yu’s hasty departure. A black cloud plumed from a dented exhaust pipe. I raced from the front window to my bedroom and buried my face into the pillow, trying to erase the fishy cigarette smell from my hair.
“I’m all alone,” I wept, soaking the cotton pillowcase.
A soft voice piped up. “That’s not true.” I looked up, surprised to see Tuzi.
“You have me, your one-eared friend.”
“You’re not real.”
“What’s not real? I’ve listened to your dreams. I’ve held your hand when you wake in a sweat. I’ve wiped away your tears. I helped you chase the Bad Man away. Go ahead, put your hand on my heart. Can you feel it?”
*
One night, Chang’e sang a ballad, her voice trembling with melancholy. Long black strands of hair swirled around her waist. Her watery eyes gazed toward the heavens. Tuzi, who had heard this song many times, knew how it would end: Chang’e begging her husband to rescue her from her misery. For once, Tuzi grew impatient, tired of the same routine. She stomped her foot to interrupt the singing. Chang’e’s eyes widened at this gall, her mouth an open pit. Would you like to dance? Tuzi asked, one hand outstretched. Chang’e shook her head. I have no partner. Tuzi waited, her hand an open invitation. Eventually, Chang’e bent down and placed her palm in hers. The two of them swayed at first, then spun in circles, melodic notes hanging in the air. The space between their bodies evaporated. From the heavens, it would have been easy to mistake the dancing pair for lovers.
*
I packed my backpack and went outside to wait for the bus on the steps, cradling Tuzi in my arms. She was delicate like sparrow wings. I would tell my teacher Ms. Hanley about Ma. I pictured her soft brown eyes filling with understanding. Warmth rose from my belly to my head, a cloud of contentment. I knew what I had to do. The morning sun kissed my flushed cheeks and a convoy of geese honked overhead, winding their way to luck-filled lands.
The daughter of Chinese immigrants, Jen Soong is a writer, artist and educator based in Northern California. She is the author of Extra Ordinary Days, a collection of poems and art, and the creator of See You See Me, a collage book exploring Asian identity and acts of resistance. An alum of Tin House and VONA, her writing has appeared in The Washington Post, The Audacity, Black Warrior Review and Best Small Fictions. She received her MFA in creative writing from UC Davis. Her memoir-in-progress is a reckoning of myth, memory and migration. Find her work at jensoong.com.
Lay Hoon aka Arty Guava is an Illustrator and Graphic Designer based in Vancouver. She grew up in Malaysia and spent most of her adult life in Singapore before moving to Canada. She has a Bachelor’s Degree in Bioengineering but chose to make a career switch after about 1 year of working in the field. Art and Design have always been her calling. She is passionate about culture, people and nature and how these themes interact with each other.