“What’s going to happen in there?” I ask Toby, once he’s gone.
“Something,” he says. “Or nothing. Whatever occurs, you’re going to love it.”
“I don’t feel comfortable taking your float,” I say, hedging now. Upon arriving, we learned the other tank would be occupied. Toby insisted on giving his session to me.
“They already fit me in for tomorrow at 11AM,” he says. “I’m meeting Kathryn for lunch afterwards if you’d like to join us.”
“Mm. Possibly.”
He quiets. “May I ask you something? What is it really that’s upsetting you so much?”
“I don’t believe in marriage. You of all people should know that.”
“You didn’t react this way with Alex.”
“So now I’m sexist? That’s not fair and you know it.”
“I do?”
“Look, I love all of you, each in your own way. But your brother is different. As brilliant as he was, he had no motivation outside of those video games. I figured he was content to live off his father’s fortune.”
“And you were right about him?”
Leave it to Toby to serve up the humble pie. What I had labelled as “destructive,” Alex had used to create the possibility of healing and hope for millions of individuals suffering from ADHD and other neurocognitive disorders. He got to the underlying issues at the root of the problem.
“He’s achieved infinitely more than I could ever have dreamed.”
“Kathryn’s not doing so badly either, if you ask me.”
“It’s not the money. Money doesn’t mean anything. Jeff and I had money. But I still dropped everything to take care of Alex.”
“And then me.”
“Yes,” I sigh. “Kathryn has talent. She has that special something that other people don’t have. She’s special. Okay? There, I said it.”
“You’re afraid she’s going to make the same mistakes you did. End up with someone like my dad. Have regrets.”
“Something like that.”
“In essence, you’d like her to live out your dreams for you.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“So then what’s really eating you?”
It’s a valid question, and one that maybe only Toby has the ability to ask in a way that I can actually tolerate. “Go on,” I snap, shoving him out the door. “Let’s get on with this already.”
“I’ll be waiting out here—”
I shut the door on him. Set my purse on the folding seat. Then I peel away my clothes. Hang up my blouse. Fold my skirt. Remove my bra and undies. I take a rubber band to my hair, then blast the shower. Soaked, I shut it off and slide open the float chamber door. I step inside. The water feels lukewarm and comes up to the knee. It’s thick, almost slimy and already not enjoyable. Now I have to lie down in it?
Fuck it. I kneel down and lay back, locating the pillow to scoot behind my head. The owner is right. Even with a floating device around my head, I can feel the tension in my neck. With my right hand, I set my fingers against the right side of the chamber, and with my left, I tap the light switch. My body rises through the murk. The water feels thick, almost gelatinous.
The room goes pitch dark. If a hand were to appear in front of my face, I would never see it. Maybe it’s the city girl in me but this kind of darkness reminds me of horror movies just before someone gets violently murdered.
Why am I thinking about this right now? I wonder. My heart races and because the room is devoid of sound, the beats sound louder and faster than I’ve ever noticed before. Maybe I’m going to have a heart attack? Then what? Will someone find me here, naked and with my eyes bulging? I panic. But just as I start to flail around, my foot sweeps the bottom of the tank, and I feel downright foolish. I lay back again, and this time, focus on my breath the way I do every Monday night. I know the meditation by heart.
“Breathing in, I follow my in breath from the beginning to the end,” Thich Nhat Hanh recites, “breathing out, I follow my out breath from the beginning to the end.” There’s the ring of the prayer bowl, low and deep, resonating through my body even as I think about it. I feel my body relax. Let go.
“Breathing in, I see that my in breath has become deeper; breathing out, I see that my out breath has become slower.” My neck releases.
“Breathing in deeper, breathing out, slower.” Tension drains from my body. The bell sounds again. What belief is causing upset over Kathryn’s marriage? “Breathing in,” Thich Nhat Hanh says, drawing me back. “I feel well when I’m breathing in…”
My body slips away. For a moment. For a lifetime. My life dissolves and only then does it show itself to me. There’s the time I discover how to touch my own body, there in my princess bed, rubbing with my fingers, terrified someone might find out. What belief?
And Jeff. Our last visit to the bay beach, sharing a rainbow lollipop and watching the sun set over the ocean.
There’s the moment when Alex is in surgery and I make a deal with God to give up my career, give up everything, so long as Alex survives.
There is Dad’s wake, a train of people circling his casket, the entire room of relatives kowtowing—once, twice, then three times. What belief?
And Ma. The sudden onset of chest pain and shortness of breath less than two weeks after Dad’s funeral, as if they’d been a close, elderly couple, walking hand in hand together for decades.
There’s Kathryn’s birth, her blanketed little body in my arms.
It’s then, in the emptiness, and devoid of body and mind, when only memories and moments exist, that it’s revealed to me. She’s going to be the queen of fashion.
There it is: my queen, my hope, my promise.
My body buoys at the surface. I become aware of my beating heart, the coolness of my chest, my sagging nipples and toes just above the water. Then, all at once, I’m flying. I’m at the end of that shooting pain, a long red cord that extends outward. On one end, I’m attached to a body floating in a tank of water, and on the other, I’m a soul flying in space. Off to the left, in my peripheral line of vision is the Buddha, a statue-like image lit from behind. Each time I try to look at it directly, it shifts, remaining always in the periphery.
I’m flying. Making figure eights through the universe.
The light switches on. It shines through my eyelids. It brings me back to the moment at the back of the shoe store when I’m 16. The black lace boots. Only now, I’m floating on water. I sweep my hands over my body. Crotch, belly, breasts. I’ve found myself. Dry salt coats the dip between my breasts.
“Everything okay in there?” Toby calls from outside.
“Yes,” I say, my eyes crusty from dry tears. “Oh, yes.”
Upon returning home, I examine the black lace boots. Intricate floral lace with paisley drops. Nude interfacing to hold the shape of the boot.
Perfect. I measure the length of the fabric, and when I’m certain there’s more than enough material to make booties, I take an X-acto knife to it, carefully separating the lace from the trim. Once that’s done, I set it aside and get started with the rest of the boot, not leaving my apartment for an entire week. Kathryn and Toby stop by, separately, and when I don’t allow either of them inside, I get an email from my daughter-in-law, Beth, who, despite being divorced from Alex, continues to be a close confident. “Would you like to meet for lunch?” she asks. Even Alex calls from Turks and Caicos where he is vacationing.
“What is it with you all?” I say, and I tell him what I told the others: “I’m busy.”
The only person I don’t hear from is Georgie, and that’s likely because at 82, she’s going deaf and doesn’t answer the phone.
I sketch and re-sketch the boot until I “find” the right design. Booties sculpted just above the ankle bone. Black lace u
pper with a black suede trim. Peep toe and lace-up vamp. 4-inch, suede-covered stiletto heels.
To begin, I drape the last with masking tape, then rub it down with the back of the scissors. With a pencil, I draw in the featheredge, the center front line and center back line. I measure and mark the counter and vamp points. Next, I transfer the design of the boot onto the last, and with an OLFA knife, cut down the center, removing the tape from the last. I take this formé pattern and flatten it onto manila cardboard. I cut it out, then window and bridge the style lines.
Inside quarter. Outside quarter. Vamp. I trace the shapes onto the lace and cut them out. Day shifts to night. Night shifts to day. I work and work. The sole, insole, heel. The inner vamp. I sew. Cut. Sew more. I check the cut, the stitching, the heel. The sun sets over a deep, lavender Hudson. I feel my entire life in each singular moment. I’m alive.
Finally, the booties are done. When Kathryn calls again, I invite her over. In my bedroom, I have a full length mirror. I move it to the living room. Situate it so that it faces the sofa. As soon as she arrives, she finds the boots on the living room table top.
“Oh Grandma,” she sighs. She picks one up, holds the toe in one hand and the heel with the other. “Where did you find this lace? It looks just like—” she stops, glances at the empty shelf where my former boots had been displayed. “Oh, Grandma—” Emotion swells to her face.
“It’s going to be a perfect wedding,” I say, “for a perfect couple.”
“I’ll cherish them forever.”
“You better. Now, try them on.”
She’s wearing a pair of Louboutins and a mini dress to show off her legs. She steps out of the pumps. I kneel before her and slip them on. Right foot. Left.
“A perfect fit,” I say.
“I feel like a princess,” she says.
“That’s because you are. Now walk for me.”
She models them, taking my apartment hallway like it’s the runway, and I can already see her long bold strides coming down the church aisle, my son at her side as she steps into this new stage of her life, the strapless corset dress with a layered chiffon mini, and trailing behind, a long and feathery train. All leg and vintage-lace boot.
Delicate. Resilient.
“There,” I say. “Just beautiful.”
Acknowledgments
Special thanks… Cliff Yu. All that you do makes it possible for me to be a happy mother, writer, (and shoemaker!). James & Tyler Yu. You give me hope. So proud of you. Charles Salzberg. You’ve been an incredible friend and teacher all these years. When I’m down, you pick me up. I cherish movie day. Please always be an elevator ride away. Jayne Bayer. When I moved to the city, I wanted to be close to friends. One floor down is pretty close. You are my family. Jolie Chylack. You are proof that God exists in people. The golden thread in my life. Marie Lee. For all your help and always getting my back. You are an inspiration. Michael Cunningham. Then at the beginning and now at a new one—you’ve always been there. Milda DeVoe. For getting me on my feet and back to work. Building the Pen Parentis community with you has been so rewarding in every way. Melanie Locay. Giving me a real space to work made this book possible. Mon Kammerman. You are a writer’s block lifesaver. Vivian Conan. Your editorial feedback is invaluable. Amazed by you. Kristine Tenace, et al. in the M/Th workshops. Your incredible feedback makes a difference. Lucille Kaye. For believing in my future. Rebecca Masson. For clueing me in to the business aspects of fashion. Mat Johnson. You are a gem. Next time, speak up. Emily Putterman, Paula Gold, Lorraine Klagsbrun, Julie Dam, Ria Osborne, Veena Mosur, Rebecca Reisman, Kevin Silva, et al. from shoemaking. There’s no one I’d rather skive or laugh with. Arlene Katz. Showing up has made all the difference. Marguerite Bouvard. For believing in my ability even when I don’t. Ross Klavan. Talks with you kept me sane. Miriam Cohen. This one’s for you. Val Dejean. Back on track because of you. Frank Gomez. Being around you is like standing in sunlight. Sheila Pleasants. Thanks for lifting me up and dusting me off. Mignon Chiu & Janinne Milazzo. For fighting the good fight. Terry Biaggi, Tina Fanelli, Karen Guttman, Patty Lang, et al. from knitting. For being there through the worst of it. The only thing better than knitting that coat is the friendships we knit together. Kathryn Herrington, Pam & Bill Berger. For listening. The Cape with you will always be some of my fondest memories. Maxine Hong Kingston, Lan Samantha Chang, Cari Luna, David Ebenbach, Helen Benedict, Elissa Schappell, Jean Kwok, Helen Schulman, Sergio Troncoso, Sharon Gurwitz for swooping in to save the day. You have my appreciation forever. Andrew Gifford. For not just believing there is a need, but doing something about it. Gish Jen. For choosing Beauty and seeing its soul. Allen Gee. You are the editor I’ve been searching for. So happy I found you.
Thank you Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, Hedgebrook, U Cross, and The Ragdale Foundation for believing in me and other artists who need a moment of paradise to create. The time and space to work and rest made it possible for me to keep plugging along. I’m here for you always.
Love to Ayana Matthews and Anne Fontaine for making one of the best moments of my life so utterly beautiful.
Much appreciation also goes to Columbia University School of the Arts, Bates College, the New York Public Library and the Wertheim Room, The New York Writers Workshop, The Marlene Meyerson JCC Manhattan, The Asian American Arts Alliance, The Asian American Writers’ Workshop, Poets & Writers, Pen Parentis, Prison Writes and Youth Writes.
About the Author
Aslan Chalom
Christina Chiu is the author of Troublemaker and Other Saints. Her stories have appeared in Tin House, The New Guard Literary Review, Washington Square, The MacGuffin, Charlie Chan is Dead II, World Wide Writers, and elsewhere. Troublemaker won the Asian American Literary Award, was nominated for the Stephen Crane First Fiction Award, and was chosen for the Alternate Selection of the Book-of-the-Month Club & QPB. Chiu is on the Boards of the New York Writers Workshop and the Pen Parentis Literary Salon. She curates and co-hosts the Pen Parentis Literary Salon and is one of the founding members of the Asian American Writers’ Workshop. Chiu received her MFA from Columbia University. She is also a shoe designer. Find her at www.christinachiu.org
Also Available From
2040 Books
Unflinching portrayals of desire and alienation fill Bonnie Chau’s award-winning story collection. Chau’s short fiction explores the lives of young women navigating love, failure, heritage, and memory, and presents a fresh perspective of second-generation Chinese-Americans. Moving back and forth between California and New York, and ranging as far away as Paris, Chau’s exquisitely written stories are bold, highly imaginative, and haunting, featuring characters who defiantly exert their individuality.
Selected as the Grand Prize Winner for the 2040 Books Awards Program by Mat Johnson.
About 2040 Books
2040 Books is a multicultural imprint of the Santa Fe Writers Project, edited by Allen Gee, publishing fiction and creative nonfiction from minority authors, hosting the James Alan McPherson Award.
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