There was never enough light in the room. But after fourteen
years, she didn’t need the light. She efficiently slipped out of her pajamas
and into the simple pantsuit she’d laid out the night before on the small
dresser at the foot of her bed. With a flick of her wrist and a plump of the
pillow, her bed was made and she silently made her way to the door and slipped
out onto the six by five strip of linoleum tile that functioned as a hallway.
One step to the linen closet on her left. Two steps away was the closed door to
her son’s room. A third step would bring her to a six by six square space that
held a simple shower converted from a bathtub, a western toilet, and a small wall
mirror that hung over a pedestal sink.
Muscle
memory had her turning right to step into the living room. Her slippered feet
barely registered the difference as linoleum made way to industrial carpeting,
then back to linoleum. Here, in this apartment, there was no wall to separate
the living area from the areas where one sleeps or eats. Instead, you had to look at the floors,
or the strategic placement of furniture, to see where one room ended and
another began. Perhaps she should
be grateful that they had the luxury of different spaces for eating and
sleeping.
She
made her way to the dilapidated pressed wood and vinyl dining table to pick up
the single plate, teacup, and fork that was left there. She shuffled into the kitchenette where
she quickly washed the errant dishes and put some water into a small sauce pot
to boil. Then, she took the four steps to the sideboard where the teapot was
nestled in its basket. The remaining tea in the teapot was still tepid, but it
wouldn’t be proper to keep it. She poured the pot down the sink before breaking
small chunk off of the tea brick and adding to the leaves that were still in
the pot. The leaves weren’t at that stage where they needed to be changed just
yet. And it really didn’t matter as very few guests crossed the threshold, but
propriety and traditional hospitality dictated that a pot of tea be kept ready.
As steam rose from the pot and tiny bubbles began to cling to the stainless
steel sides, Mei turned off the flame and deftly brought the saucepot to
teapot. The scent of strong pur-reh
She
then reached behind the sugar canister to retrieve the packet made from
meticulously folded facial tissue paper. There, nestled in the folds were a
handful of tablets and capsules that she’s supposed to take for her health. One
for blood pressure, one for her cholesterol, and a handful for everything else
that was ailing her at the moment. Dutifully, she took them, chasing each one
with a swallow of water, wrinkling her nose as the bitter uncoated tablets
touched her tongue.
It
wasn’t long before she heard the knock on the door. Her other son was at the
door, dropping off the child. They exchanged their usually pleasantries as he
walked in, carrying the still sleeping girl in his arms. He gently transferred her onto the
couch. Impervious to the rough fabric or the firmness of the seats, she
continued sleeping. Her son then left, with the usual mumblings of when he and
his wife will come take the girl again. The actual words may be different from
day to day, but the sentiment is always the same.
Leaving
the sleeping child, she shuffled back into the kitchen to prepare the morning
meal. Taking the same pot she’d used earlier to boil water, she put in a
measure of rice and proceeded to triple wash it as her mother had taught
her. Back in China, she’d have a
proper pot, made of simple clay and steel wire, for cooking rice like this. But
she’d learned how to make do. The cling-clang of the flimsy lid told her that
the rice was now at the first boil. As she reduced the heat on the burner with
one hand, the other reached toward the plastic Tupperware her son had brought
with him, containing the piece of squab marinating in soy and ginger. With a
deftness that belied her age, the meat and marinade was added to the cooking
rice.
Minutes
passed as the aromas of the cooking bird and rice began to fill the apartment.
Mei scowled as she adjusted the flame one more time, getting the cooking
process to slow down just a little, so that it would be ready once the child
wakes up. She shuffled back into the living room as there wasn’t anything else
to do now, but wait. As she paced the length of the room – thirteen paces one
way, thirteen another – she looked on the child, sprawled unseemingly on her
stomach on the couch – and scowled further. She didn’t understand the whole
point of this ritual. The girl wouldn’t amount to anything, considering the
child’s mother. The only thing the girl was a testimony to was that she, Mei,
was right to disapprove of the union. The chit couldn’t even give her son a son
of his own, and denied her a grandson.
But
this was America. And in America, things were different. Here, it doesn’t
matter if you’re the family Matriarch. Here, your sons leave the family house
just like a daughter would. Mei scowled. Here, girls are cherished as much as
boys.
Mei
went back into the kitchen tend to the rice, mixing it and fluffing it.
Satisfied, she proceeded to fill a bowl with the tender grains and topped it with
the pieces of bird. She brought out the bowl and placed it on the dining table
with a pair of bamboo chopsticks that should have been too big for the little
hands.
Without
being called, the child shambled to the table and climbed up the chair and
proceeded to attack the bowl with a voraciousness that was more appropriate for
a son. Mei then made her way back into the kitchen, and transferred the
remaining rice into a bowl for herself before adding a cup of water into the
pot to loosen the bits of crust stuck to the bottom. She leaned against the
counter as she picked at the bowl with her chopsticks, savoring the rice. At
least it was an improvement over the white rice and fermented bean curd she
would be eating if she’d not had the child to cook for. Mei scowled at the
thought that she should be grateful for a girl child’s leftovers.
Between
bites of her own food, Mei checked the softening rice crust, taking a moment to
scrape down the sides and bottom to loosen it further. She then went to
retrieve the girl’s bowl where a few morsels of rice remained. Into the bowl went the watery gruel from
the pot. She shook her head and
scowled with disdain. This slop was only good for dogs and servants. Her lips
pursed tightly as she remembered the days when all she had was this gruel made
from bland white rice. She’d be
lucky if the family she was cleaning for allowed her some soy sauce or
fermented daofu to flavor it.
When
the bowl was returned to the child, she dug in with gusto, gulping the broth
and shoveling the still crunchy bits of toasted rice into her tiny mouth with
as much grace as any peasant. Stupid girl.
Perhaps it is fitting that she likes it.
Shortly
after the child finished her morning meal, and Mei had cleaned up and put away
the dishes and the pot, the bedroom door opened and her husband, clad from neck
to toe in his pajamas, would shuffle from the room to the bathroom. Eventually,
he would come out into the kitchen and make a cup of tea from the bags held in
the yellow and red box with the bak-guai prominently
displayed, sipping from a western style cup. He would drink it like them too, with sugar and milk.
Mei
went into the room, as she did every day, and straightened up her husband’s
bed. She didn’t bother to open the curtains, but rather made the bed and
plumped his pillow in the same manner that she’d done for hers. She then gathered the clothes he’d
strewn on the floor or the bed and meticulously folded them, placing them on
his dresser where he’ll use them again when he went out tonight; as he did
every night. When she stepped back
into the living room, the child was standing on the sofa, chattering away at
him in a hodgepodge of Chinese and that infernal American tongue. He smiled at her and she gleefully
hopped before settling down into the seat and turned her attention to the large
screen that was now alive with lights and sounds.
The
moving pictures of people, jumping up and down in unbridled joy were
accompanied with bells, flashing lights, and confetti. Occasionally, a screen
would be pulled away to reveal cars, or the machines that made life easier; a
large refrigerator, stove, or a washing machine. Sometimes, the pictures were
those of beautiful places with gold sand, clear water, and tall trees. She
scowled as numbers in the hundreds and thousands flashed across the screen, a
testimony to the luck bestowed on undeserving lo-fan and hak-guai that appeared on the show.
Mei
settled into her chair, a beat-up construct of coarse fabric and wood with
sagging cushions that offered little support. She was tired of pacing, but not
able to do anything else for the time being. And so she stared at the picture
box, watching the people get excited about cars, vacuums, and a spinning wheel
of color.
He
went to the door and retrieved the newspaper that was delivered without fail,
then reclaimed his place in his recliner. Still nursing his tea, he lit a
cigarette, unfurled the rolled up newsprint and proceeded to scan through then.
The child said something, and smiling, he pull out a section – the one with
drawn pictures – and gave it to the girl who promptly spread the filthy pages
on the floor so she can see it all, just like him. Mei couldn’t hide her
disdain as she glared at the stupid child. The chit could not read, yet
pretends. If only those words were characters, Mei thought to herself, I’d be able to decipher their contents,
unlike the ignorant child. But her husband preferred the American news.
The
child eventually grew tired and climbed up into the sofa again, falling asleep
as she the stared at the moving pictures, as he puffed away on his cigarette
and nursed his second cup of tea. Hours would pass as the picture box droned on
and on and on, until the child would wake and immediately turn to her
grandfather and excitedly ask him something. Smiling at her excitement, he
meticulously exchanged his indoor slippers for his walking shoes, and made a
motion for the child to get hers. She could slip them on, but he would always
make sure the Velcro or laces were tied tight. Finally, he would light a fresh
cigarette before taking the girl’s hand and walking out of the apartment, letting
the door close behind them.
Mei
reveled in the silence as she shut off the machine. Taking her time, she moved
about the room, opening windows to let in some fresher air, picking up the
discarded newspapers and folding them the best she could, taking the tea cup
with the remaining dregs to the sink where she washed, dried, and put it away
with practiced efficiency. She heard the door open and shut again; the sounds
of careless footsteps crossing the rough carpet followed by the squeak on the
linoleum, and then the rattle of the loose, flimsy doorknob as it was turned.
The careless thunk of her younger son’s bedroom door being kicked closed,
followed by the rhythmic thumping of music being unsuccessfully muffled by the
thin walls, told her that he was home.
With
the day dwindling, she brought out the vacuum, turning it on and was comforted
by the constant, loud hum as she passed it over the thin, rough carpets, worn
from the years of use. The carpet was pragmatic choice of the landlord’s; having
chosen a heavy industrial one in a brown that would look the same after years
at it did when it was installed. Mei passed the vacuum over a patch of carpet
that had a spill just a couple of days ago. Careless
chit. The stain was barely noticeable. Water, soap, and hard scrubbing
would take out some of the stains, but would just as likely bring up dirt
trapped in the thin padding underneath.
From
the corner of her eye, Mei saw the door open and the child bound in ahead of
her grandfather, clutching a new treasure in her grubby little paws. Mei shut
off the vacuum and put it away. When she joined them again, she bit her tongue
as she saw that the child had a new coloring book and a handful of
crayons. The spot of soy sauce on
the child’s dress, the smattering of crumbs, and the large Styrofoam cup next
to the child was enough for Mei to know that she wouldn’t need to prepare a
mid-day meal for them. Her husband then gathered up his hat and jacket, then
left again, lighting up another cigarette with the Bic he kept on the side
table near his chair.
Before
too long, her elder son would knock on the door, respectfully nodding to her
has she answered, letting him in. After some pleasantries, he gathered the
child and her belongings before whisking out the door, needing to pick up his
wife from the nearby garment factory as they let out their workers for the day.
Mei shuffled back into the kitchen and prepared a simple meal from the
leftovers of three dinners past, heating it in the contraption that was plugged
into the wall near the far side of the table. As she pulled out the warmed up
bowl of rice and saucer of seasoned gai
lan, her younger son emerged from his room, made a beeline for the door,
and was gone as swiftly and unexpectedly as he appeared.
She
slowly ate her meal in silence, and took care to tidy up after herself, wiping
down the table, the counters, and finally the sink when she finished. She
reached behind the sugar canister again and found the evening packet of pills
her husband had left for her, taking them as she had taken the ones in the
morning. The bitterness of the uncoated tablets was not noticeable as she took
these with the sweetened orange drink that her husband always buys. She checked
the doors, making sure that each of the three locks are secure, and leaving at
least one lamp on, shuffles into the bedroom. There, she pulls a set of clothes
from her husband’s closet and lays them out the foot of the bed on the side he
doesn’t sleep on. She follows with her own clothes, folding them and laying
them neatly on her dresser at the foot of the firm twin she calls her own,
before donning her sleepwear.
Leaving
the dim lamp on by her husband’s bed, Mei slipped under her covers, closed her
eyes, and willed herself to sleep.
