Beauty

by Christina Chiu

  “What did he say, Toby? You can tell me.”

  Toby pushes away from me to vomit on the floor on the other side of the bed. The effort or force of the endeavor makes him groan and clasp his head harder.

  “Sweetheart,” I say when he finally quiets. “If I went through with the adoption? What about it?”

  Toby bursts out crying. “He said he’d rather see you dead.”

  “You mean he was going to burn down the house with me inside it?”

  “Ow, ow, ow,” Toby sobs, the gasping motion so painful that his entire body clenches between breaths. The doctor instructs the nurse to add a pain medication via IV, explaining it is both to avoid Toby vomiting up the medication and to keep him from getting dehydrated. He leaves, making room for the officer to move closer. Toby convulses, he’s crying so hard. “He said he’d tie you up in the basement, douse you with oil, and set you on fire.”

  “Oh, baby,” I say, pressing him to me. “He was just trying to scare you.”

  “I didn’t believe him, either,” Toby says, “but I snuck into his house a few weeks ago to get something, and I saw this picture he taped on the kitchen wall, and he meant it. He really meant it.”

  “What was this picture?” the officer asks.

  “It was this Chinese monk or something, just sitting there on fire.”

  My body shudders. While it was obvious to me that William was emotionally troubled and abusive, and for this reason, to be feared, especially after the divorce and the breakup with his girlfriend when he lost any sense of control, I had no idea of the depth of his mental illness. Toby’s describing the famous photo taken during the early 60s. A Vietnamese monk self-immolated himself on a busy Saigon intersection in protest of the government. Likely, the officer has the same photograph in mind because he swallows as if he’s gulping down an egg, whole. The nurse locates a vein on the inside of Toby’s elbow and starts the IV, attaching it to a pole.

  The officer asks if there was an altercation between him and his father, and Toby replies yes.

  “What was the actual cause of the altercation?” the officer asks.

  Snot drips from Toby’s nostrils. “He was trying to get inside the house, but I couldn’t let him.”

  “He would have realized I wasn’t home?” I suggest.

  Toby nods, the slight movement causing him to clutch his head at his temples. “Yeah, it wouldn’t have worked if he’d realized you weren’t home.”

  “Setting the fire?” the officer asks.

  “Yeah,” Toby says. “I called him and said Mom was asleep so if he wanted to talk with me, I could come outside …”

  “You mean you set him up?” I ask.

  “He got really pissed I ‘accidentally’ locked myself out of the house.”

  Gently, I touch the bump at the back of Toby’s head. He knew his father so well; he saw so clearly the full extent of William’s illness.

  “I just needed it to be behind me,” Toby says. “To move on.”

  “Oh, Toby.” He’s using my words.

  “I couldn’t live like that, anymore,” Toby says. “Just waiting, you know?”

  Paranoia. Moodiness. Exhaustion. It all made sense, now. Toby’s strange behavior didn’t seem so strange anymore. He must have been up every night, patrolling from the living room sofa, ready to call for help if necessary. “I’m so sorry,” I say, holding him. “Mommy’s so, so sorry.”

  Transport arrives with a wheelchair. The nurse clamps the tubing and disconnects the IV. I move off the bed and help Toby into the chair. Toby holds one of the ice packs to his head.

  I walk beside Toby as transport pushes him to X-ray. It’s all too familiar. Feels like déjà vu. Only this time, my son reaches for my hand. I take it. This boy, my child, risked his life to save mine. The wheelchair rolls down the corridor, past patients and buzzing machines, one after another after another, and it’s like leaving the dust of former lifetimes, and very possibly, I think, even this one.

  A Closet Into Eternity

  The casket. It’s sparkly copper with a silver trim. The top’s open, revealing a shiny, off white interior. Over the bottom half rests a spray of white lilies. Wreaths of white chrysanthemums, tulips, and mums—each on a self-standing easel and red sash naming the family it’s from—line the four walls. From where I stand at the back entrance of the room, behind the rows of folding chairs, there’s no view of the body at all. The wake doesn’t start for another hour, and yet the room is already occupied with at least forty people, mostly older, either seated in the guest area, milling about, or talking in hushed tones. Maybe it’s the jet lag, but everyone seems distant and muted. Their shapes seem almost fuzzy, as if I’m looking through a dense fog.

  The Wife. Which one is she? I’ve never met her or The Son, nor have I seen photos. Ma once said she wasn’t pretty, just young—only a year or two older than Georgie—but I never believed her. For Dad to leave, either the woman had to be spectacularly beautiful or Dad had to have hated us that much.

  And The Son. He’s here, too, somewhere.

  “You’re late!” Ma says in a low voice, appearing from the muddle. She’s wearing the black, pleated Jeff Jones skirt I got from work. It was my birthday gift to her last year.

  “I didn’t make the earlier flight,” I say. “I couldn’t leave until after the presentation.”

  “New designs?” She’s thrilled about my recent promotion to Executive Creative Director. She smooths her fingers over her skirt.

  “No, numbers,” I say. “Corporate wants to cut back again. That looks good on you.”

  “Pretty, uh?”

  The people closest to us turn to stare. I have never seen any of these people before, and yet I get the feeling they all know who I am.

  I eye a 60-ish-year-old woman with heavy makeup, blown-out hair, and long, immaculate lash extensions. She’s decked out in Akris; a double-faced, leather-inset sheath dress. She’s older than I, but not by much. Maybe five or six years. Could it be her?

  “Quick,” Ma orders. “Go see your father. We’re starting soon.”

  “Wait.” I notice Georgie, in the far corner of the room, deep in conversation with a slender, six-foot Chinese gentleman. He hands her a pen and tome of papers, points to the page as if indicating where he’d like her to sign. Attorney? No, can’t be. Even from where I’m standing, I can tell he’s wearing a handsome suit, not conservative enough on one hand, and much too lovely on the other, for the typical attorney. Then, again, this is Hong Kong. Ma always says people here take better care in how they dress. “Who’s that hot—” I start to ask.

  But Ma’s attention is elsewhere; something over my shoulder. Nearsightedness forces her to squint. I glance around to see an older man with thinning hair. He waves. Her cheeks flush. She returns the gesture.

  “Who’s he?” I ask.

  “Uncle.”

  “Uncle as in blood relative?” I smirk, “or Uncle as in one of Dad’s friends and you’re actually flirting at his funeral?”

  “Zen me le?” What happened? Ma tsks. “A person shouldn’t have manners?”

  “No, really, Ma,” I laugh. “Who are all these people?”

  Ma surveys the gathering. “Family.”

  “Family!” I’ve yearned for family for how many years, and she’s telling me now that all these people I never knew about were part of it?

  “Ah yah—” Ma utters, shaking her head. “Ta de,” hers. Ma searches the room, and not finding her, says, “You know who.”

  “I thought this thing wasn’t starting for another hour.”

  “For outside people.” Ma rolls my carry-on suitcase, then nudges me toward the front of the room. “Now, go.”

  I pause. In my mind, I’ve had this idea about the moment I first see Dad. There’s the possibility that I’ll come to some kind of realization about my life
, or his, or perhaps the one we shared and then not shared. I might sob in front of everyone. On one hand, crying is proof I care. It is a declaration that love existed; that I matter. And yet I don’t want a spectacle, not in front of strangers, and especially not in front of her and The Son. There’s the part of me that doesn’t want to give them the benefit of knowing I care at all. And as much love and compassion as I’ve tried to cultivate as a newfound Buddhist, it doesn’t actually extend to them. I hate them. I’ve never hated anyone more. The Buddha taught that holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die, and yet, I gulp it down like nectar.

  Ma brushes something from my forehead.

  “What?” I ask, self-consciously touching my face. Do I have a piece of lint stuck to my forehead? Is my makeup smudged?

  “You look terrible,” she acknowledges. “I’ve never seen anyone wearing Chanel look so terrible.”

  I smile. “An 18-hour flight will do that to a person.”

  “You didn’t sleep?”

  “You kidding? Ambien the whole way.”

  “Ambine,” Ma nods. “Ambine ding hao,” the best. After all these years, it’s here at Dad’s wake—over small talk about sleeping pills—that Ma’s letting me in. She never admits it, but she blames me for what happened. The first time Dad left, she literally dragged him back from China, practically on a leash. But Dad had ongoing business in Shanghai, and because of me, Ma couldn’t jet set off with him. That woman had a boy; Ma got stuck with me. Heat floods the backs of my eyes.

  “Don’t,” Ma says.

  “I know.” Don’t cry. Whatever you do, don’t cry.

  I scan the faces that fill the room.

  “They’re not here right now,” Ma says, squinting, her gaze shifting with mine.

  “You sure?”

  “I know. You think I don’t know?” she whispers. “Maybe they went to pay. I show you later. Now I’m going outside.” She gesticulates with a pointer and middle finger. She’s going for a smoke.

  “Georgie told me you quit,” I say.

  “Ay, that was last year.” She grips the handle of my carry-on suitcase and heads for the hallway. “I’ll put this away for you.”

  I step toward the casket. Then, without drama or emotion, I’m standing in front of it. In front of him. Dad looks older than I expected. His hair is thinner, a mottled mix of white and grey dust. He’s shorter than I remember—he must have shrunk at least a couple inches—and even with a sports jacket, he seems frail. Intellectually, I know he’s got to be close to ninety, but emotionally I’m stuck on the Dad from when I was 16. The two don’t match up. What’s more, the makeup artist used too much powder. It’s meant to cut the plastic-looking sheen over the skin. Noticing it makes me uneasy; the body has already gone through the embalming process.

  “Let him go,” the woman had said. “He deserves a few years of happiness.”

  “Were you really that unhappy?” I ask, silently. “Because we loved you, Daddy. I loved you.”

  The map in my mind automatically reverts to the same place. If only I had better grades like Georgie. Was smarter. Worked harder. I should have been more Chinese. More beautiful. A boy.

  Loneliness is a vacuum inside me. It’s buried beneath my smile, invisible, and yet as dense as stone.

  “Didn’t you love me anymore?” I ask. “Didn’t I mean anything to you?”

  All of a sudden, I smell him. Dad. It’s as if I’m five, curled up and asleep on his lap. The closeness I feel is startling. He’s here. Daddy’s here.

  Behind me, an elderly man with a cane waits patiently for a moment with Dad. I indicate with a finger that I’ll just be another minute.

  “I’m sorry you never got to know my boys, Daddy,” I say. “They’re my everything.”

  Then, nodding at the gentleman behind me, I step aside. The old man shuffles to the coffin, and I leave to go find Ma. In the long corridor outside Dad’s room, I pass a Buddhist procession. There’s a resonant sound of men chanting. A six-foot statue of Buddha sits at the front of the room, an altar filled with at least a dozen smaller Buddhas, flowers, lit candles and incense. To the side, there’s a framed photo of the deceased and the urn containing the body. On the dais sit three monks clad in brownish gold robes, cross legged, eyes closed. The drone of their voices lulls the room full of kneeling guests.

  While I consider myself Buddhist, these rituals seem foreign and strange. If my paternal grandmother hadn’t been converted by the Catholics who went to Shanghai, this would be the ceremony Dad would be having, too. His body would be cremated. Housed in an urn; the vessel holds the ashes, the body holds the soul.

  A moment. A memory. That’s all we are.

  The funeral home has a glass entrance that looks out over Causeway Bay. I can see Georgie with Ma outside in the intensely bright, Hong Kong heat. With the elegant black skirt, the up-do and large black sunglasses, Ma looks like a Chinese Audrey Hepburn. It’s hard to believe she turns 75 later this year. She doesn’t look a day over 50.

  The attorney I saw with Georgie appears from the restroom. There’s confidence in his stride, a debonair and gentlemanly quality that is striking. He’s not a “guy.” He is the kind of man who takes the time to dress and style his hair. He’s wearing a two-piece suit. Definitely Italian. A Kiton? No, it couldn’t possibly be. Oh, my god, it is. Black, wool, and by the looks of it, 12 or 14 micron. Two-button jacket with flap panels, notch lapel, basted sleeves. Single-pleat trousers. Look at that cut. Meticulous. And, oh, the hand stitching. Flawless.

  He asks me something in Mandarin. He speaks a little too quickly for my ability. When he sees I don’t comprehend, he says it in English. British English, not American. “May I help you?” he asks.

  “I don’t know who you are,” I say, “but I’m simply in awe of your suit.”

  “Not so bad yourself,” he says. His looks and accent would make any girl swoon. He holds my gaze. Draws closer.

  “Peter,” he says, pronouncing it “Pe-ta.” He leans to kiss me on one cheek, then the other. I’m not expecting the second kiss, and as a result, his lips brush against mine.

  “Oops,” I say, heat rushing to my face.

  He smiles. “And you are?”

  “Amy,” I say. “Amy Wong.”

  A shadow passes over his face. He steps back. It hits me. It’s him. The Son.

  I leap away. Shock. Horror. Confusion. It’s a total mind fuck. I’m 55; he’s 39. Emotionally, I’m stuck at 16; I’m expecting the little boy who stole my father.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  He nods. “Yes.”

  “You look older than I expected,” I say.

  “That’s fine then,” he says. “Because you look younger than I expected.”

  “Isn’t that funny.”

  “Yes. Isn’t it.”

  We laugh nervously.

  “If you don’t mind my saying,” he says, “you and your sister are quite different.”

  “Yeah?” Georgie steps inside with Ma. She has short cropped, peppered hair and no makeup. In the past few years, she has gained more weight. The black top and slacks fit well but the jacket’s too snug. It needs letting out at the arms and waist. She’s wearing a pair of Prada loafers, as if the name can cover up the fact that she has given up on beauty and love. It’s hard for me to look at her. One of my meditation teachers says the world is but a reflection of you. If this is so, Georgie shows the side of me I resist most. She’s aging and alone. She has resigned herself to this fate.

  “Xiao di,” Ma says uncertainly. “You met my younger daughter.”

  “Yes, Aunty, we’ve met,” he says, and there’s a kindness, a deference toward her that makes him instantly likable, despite everything I’ve felt toward him all these years. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course,” Ma says.
r />   Someone steps out of Dad’s room and waves Peter over.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, glancing at his watch. “The family will be starting in ten minutes and guests should be arriving in half an hour for the service.”

  “We’ll be there in a moment,” I say.

  He rushes back to the room. Once he’s inside, Georgie says, “He seems nice enough.”

  “All I can say is his mom must be gorgeous,” I say.

  “Ha,” Ma huffs. “You kidding?”

  “Not as gorgeous as you, of course,” I quickly add.

  “That’s right,” Ma says. “You obviously haven’t met her. She’s old and fat.”

  “Excuse me?” Georgie says pointedly, tugging at the lapels of her jacket. “I take offense to that.”

  “Why? You old and fat?”

  “In fact, I am.”

  “Xia jiang!” Ma says. “Foolish talk. Take it back.”

  Georgie fixes her glasses. “No.”

  “My meaning is Xiao Di looks like Daddy,” she snips. “Not her.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “If you had seen your father when he was young,” Ma sighs. “So debonair and handsome. So many women. A real—how you say?—‘player,’ yes?”

  Georgie and I start laughing. When I notice Ma’s sadness, I take her hand. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

  “Don’t be. Maybe I’m the lucky one.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your daddy could be very difficult.”

  “Excuse me?” Georgie says. “Daddy was not difficult.”

  “Was he?” I ask.

  “Oh, you don’t remember,” Ma tsks. “Very bad temper. Some days he’s not happy. Then whatever you do, nothing is right. Nothing is good. Yelling, yelling.”

  Maybe Georgie remembers something because she goes quiet.

  “You’re right, I don’t remember that,” I say.

  “Ai, after Daddy left, all you remember is the good things. Now come.” She takes our hands and leads us back to the room. Inside, everyone is forming a line that circles three quarters of the room. Ma walks us straight to the front of it. Peter checks a typed list, and from it starts rearranging people accordingly. “All the cousins,” Ma explains. “Everyone has to be in the right order.”