by Shirley Marr
“It was all a joke, wasn’t it? Well, I admit it—you fooled us good!”
Biaojie starts to laugh loudly, even though there is no joy in her voice and the laugh she does manage to push out sounds like a hollow echo. Her little sister joins in. Then the two of them are up and away, racing and mounting the steps two at a time, and although they are only going back into the house, it feels as though they are leaving you behind. They have each other. You have nobody.
“That was the lamest thing ever,” says Kevin, and he makes his way to the fence and climbs back over to his side. You are now truly alone.
“Why didn’t you show your true self?”
The glasshouse doesn’t reply.
A pair of crows fighting atop one of the domed arches fly off in vocal anger and leave poop on the glass.
You refuse to look at the glasshouse anymore out of disgust. You search for the black-and-white cat, but she is nowhere to be seen, the pile of wooden crates unoccupied. You plead for Big Scary to show you a sign, so that you know that at least someone cares about you. She gives nothing back to you but the façade of a house. You are alone and confused again.
Ma Ma is awake and in the kitchen. A new urn sits on the stovetop, boiling gallons of water at once so that lots of instant coffee can be pumped out at the same time. Ma Ma has a smile on her face. You have not known her to be willingly awake this early or be so happy about it.
First, Second, and Fourth Aunty sit around the kitchen table, idly chatting and taking turns scraping one another’s backs with a wooden back scratcher. They all smell like the Kwan Loong oil that they have been furiously rubbing onto their throats and inside their nostrils in a bid to ward off the cold weather.
You imagine the lot of them sitting in the ancestral home in the Old Land, with the huge ancestral altar in the front room, thick with incense and the ghosts of grandparents and the past. You think about offerings made on the altar in the form of oranges, oil, and fresh flowers. About how you have to clasp your hands together and give respect to the framed photo of Ah Ma and Ah Gong, so they will in turn give blessings to you.
Mrs. Huynh is also seated at the table, and she looks mighty uncomfortable. Ma Ma is making no effort to talk to her as Ma Ma is too busy being the center of attention.
“You need to buy a hallway table and make a small shrine for him,” says First Aunty, referring to Ba Ba.
“I’ve decided against the idea,” replies Ma Ma. “I don’t want to follow the old traditions here.”
Second Aunty gasps at this response and gives the corners of her own mouth small smacks even though it wasn’t her who said it.
“This is a nice, clean, modern house and I don’t want incense ash everywhere and a blackened ceiling from all the smoke,” says Ma Ma. She passes cups of coffee around.
First Aunty snorts loudly and starts hacking up imaginary phlegm, and Mrs. Huynh leans right back. In your mind you believe that Mrs. Huynh’s Old Land and your aunt’s home mustn’t be that far separated, so she should be used to this type of behavior. Maybe Mrs. Huynh has been in the New Land for too long.
All you know is that Mrs. Huynh looks at the pile of frozen chicken wings defrosting in the sink, the stack of old newspapers that will become tonight’s tablecloth, everything accommodated for, and she excuses herself politely to go home.
“We saw a pink serpent.” Biaomei tugs on the arm of her mother.
“What did I tell you about not going out back? It’s a jungle. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got eaten by a tiger.”
“But Meixing never said anything about tigers, only a pink serpent, orange trees, and the sun and the moon both at the same time.”
Fourth Aunty gives you a long look. It’s not an encouraging one.
“You need to quell your daughter’s imagination,” your aunt says to Ma Ma, as if you were invisible. “Thinking too much along those lines is not good for the brain. I suppose the discipline at the schools here is quite lenient.”
You hide another piece of yourself on the inside.
You will not speak unless you are spoken to.
Second Aunty is flipping through an old photo album—you are not sure where she got it. Maybe Big Scary has revealed another secret cupboard. She points to the picture of the Sad Bride, the same one in the framed photo on the formal dining room wall.
“That is Ah Ma on her wedding day. An arranged marriage. Back in the day when women didn’t have many prospects.”
You twist the ring on your finger in a shared sorrow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN Moth
Monday comes and it is the dreaded day. You think about the white shirt and black pants Ma Ma has arranged for you to wear this evening; she says you must dress in the colors of a magpie. You are haunted by the vision of the shirt and pants, spread out on the bed, looking as though whoever had been wearing them had lain down and then disappeared.
A big fuss is made about what lunch you should take to school because each of your aunts wants to be the one to prepare it. First Aunty wins, as she always does because she is the oldest, and she makes you a freshly cooked, three-course meal in a three-level tiffin box. She even offers to come to you at lunchtime and spoon-feed you. You respectfully decline this in horror.
On the way out you see Mrs. Huynh standing at her mailbox, but she isn’t taking any letters out. She stares at you sadly, perhaps hoping you will make eye contact and tell her something about Ma Ma. You come so close to telling her that you miss her and maybe Ma Ma misses her too and she should come over. But you can’t put this into words, and it has nothing to do with language barriers.
You concentrate on getting through the day, through class, so you can go home again. The reward of playing with your cousins means you have to do your work, stay out of trouble, keep quiet, lie low. Until Miss Cicely taps you on the shoulder and asks to speak to you privately outside.
“One of your classmates has accused you of stealing from them.”
You look at Miss Cicely, confused.
“She says that you took a gold ring that belonged to her. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
Your mouth opens. Then it closes. You both stare down at the band on your finger. You shake your head furiously.
“It’s a very serious allegation, Meixing, do you understand? Maybe you didn’t mean to take it on purpose. You can tell me the truth.”
You don’t feel surprised even though it stings, having no idea how to begin explaining. If you try to say it was her who stole your ring, it will sound like you are lying. What a mess! Your mind is running so fast that if you try to speak the words they will only trip over your tongue and fall out in a confused heap.
“Meixing. This is simply unacceptable.” Miss Cicely’s pretty face becomes scrunched. “We have tried our very best to accommodate you, even sending you to a special learning class. We’ve welcomed you into this country, and you repay this by—”
Miss Cicely seems to realize what she is saying and stops, but it is too late. You have lost confidence in her ability to believe whatever truth you might tell her. Your heart sinks and you have never felt so worthless in your entire life.
For the second time your ring is taken from you. And maybe it should hurt less the second time because you never expected to get the ring back the first time. But maybe it hurts more because this time someone you should be able to trust has taken it.
You sit as heavy as a stone for the rest of the school day, feeling as though you are going to break through the seat of your chair. Hands weighted, eyelids down. Somewhere in the pit of your stomach Ah Ma’s ring swishes and sloshes uneasily in the souring juices.
To your disappointment, there is no playing with your cousins when you get home. You are told to change and then rushed straight out the door again.
The service is held at a small funeral parlor. All is quiet in the room, where there’s a worship table covered in a red cloth. The Buddhist priest, the laypeople dressed in their traditional robes, and your re
latives all arrive. The funeral ladies in their neat pencil skirts and matching blazers stand at the doorway and stare. But Ailing has paid for everything, so they keep their curiosity politely to themselves.
You see the shiny brown coffin in the corner of the room, covered in flowers, and a portrait of your father when he was young, stiff and serious, perhaps taken after high school at a professional photo place. Why this photo? You don’t know. He doesn’t even look like that anymore. You try not to look. It feels unreal because under that lid, you think to yourself, anyone could be in there.
You still expect Ba Ba to come home and say it’s all been a mistake, that he just needed more time to get over the argument he had with Ma Ma. Wasn’t it all a funny misunderstanding? He learned his lesson, he’s never going to hurt either of you again, and he is going to the store right now to buy you that plastic pony.
Imagine if the lid opened to reveal a magician’s box, with a velvet lining adorned with silver stars inside, and Ba Ba steps out to take a bow?
But the coffin stays shut and silent.
Everyone is dressed in the same white shirts and black pants as you. You think of magpies and you wonder what they are grieving for in their funeral feathers. In your mind you remember a fairy tale Ma Ma once told you about a boy and a girl at the opposite ends of the Milky Way and how all the magpies made a bridge to connect them. Perhaps the magpies are sad that they can help the couple meet only once a year.
One of your older, responsible girl cousins is in charge of handing out the white lengths of cloth for everyone to tie around their heads. Even though everyone is supposed to be mourning, your boy cousins start laughing and making Karate Kid moves at each other before their mothers threaten to cane them.
You want to stay with Biaojie and Biaomei, but you have to go up front with Ma Ma as an immediate family member. She wears a red scarf around her neck to protect the life inside of her because no ghost or bad spirit can get through such a powerful, happy color. Each of your Aunties and the priest have advised Ma Ma against being part of the actual ceremony, as she is so humongous and because it is plain bad luck, but Ma Ma would not be persuaded. Cultures and superstitions and rituals are so hard to understand, you think, especially since they can be chopped and changed at any given moment.
You all kneel down in the room, and the service starts.
The priest chants and a lot of incense is lit and everyone has to stand up and kneel down and stand up and walk around in circles and kneel down again. You are worried about Ma Ma and her huge tummy as her face turns red from the struggle, but she bats your hand away and you put it behind your back so that it won’t try doing that again.
Ailing, so highly foreign educated but completely ignorant about the proceedings of a traditional funeral, comes up front to try to solve the problem. She is sharply told to go back in place.
Your eyes water, not because you are crying—you don’t truly believe Ba Ba is gone—but from the fragrant smoke wafting around. Bells are rung, fingers are formed into prayer hands, and foreheads are touched to the ground. The funeral parlor ladies stand politely by the door and try to keep their eyes from bulging and their mouths from commenting.
As you stand up once again, your legs and knees become very sore and you wonder what this is truly for, but it is something that has been done for generations so it’s something that has to be done today.
At one point you look up and see, at the back of the room, where an empty row of chairs is set up for observers, Mrs. Huynh and Kevin sitting there silently. Kevin is wearing a suit and his hair has been flattened down into a shiny black wing. The ceremony continues and time seems to go on forever. Tears are streaming down your face, but you are not crying.
As you kneel on the floor staring blankly, the only sounds being the priest’s chants and a ringing bell, a large brown moth flutters in from the darkness outside and lands on the wall. It stays there for the whole rest of the proceeding, occasionally lifting its furry wings.
“It’s your father!” Biaojie whispers into your ear, as you all complete another circle around the room. “He’s come to watch.”
You don’t know whether to believe her.
After the ceremony is over, a red packet is shoved into your hand. When you look inside, there is a coin for good luck and a wrapped sweet to take away the bitter taste of death. You put the coin in your pocket and eat the sweet. You look over to where Kevin and his mother were sitting, but they have vanished.
Tired and drained, you all pile into the taxis waiting outside and go back home, except Ma Ma and Ailing, who need to finalize what remains to be done. You want to stay behind too because Ba Ba might still reveal his secret magic trick at the last minute, but you are told by Ma Ma that you have no part in adult business.
Big Scary is waiting for you to get back with every single light on. Which is strange since, when you left, it wasn’t dark yet and nobody had turned on any lights. Everyone swears it wasn’t them playing a prank, but they laugh anyway due to nerves. The taxi drivers are not superstitious; they want the hesitant passengers to get out so they can get paid.
Everyone stands at the bottom of the steps and looks upward.
“I think this house is haunted,” says Fifth Aunty.
“I didn’t want to be the first to say it,” replies Fourth Aunty in the whispered tone she keeps for gossip. “The house seems to get bigger every single day. This morning I swear I found an extra bathroom.”
“I don’t think it’s a harmful spirit,” agrees Fifth Aunty. “I personally wouldn’t mind having a house that got bigger.”
“Too much cleaning,” chimes in Third Aunty in all seriousness.
“Still, I think a Taoist master should be invited in to clean it out.”
You look up at Big Scary and wonder why it is so necessary to get rid of anything that is considered weird or different. Big Scary pulses that secret code—three short signals, followed by three long signals, and then the three short signals again—that you have seen her do once before. No one else sees. But you understand, and in the dark you hold your open palm up toward her as a sign that you stand with her.
“I know what’s going to happen,” Biaojie whispers into your ear. “On the seventh day Ba Ba’s ghost will come home, thinking that he is still alive. Everyone has to stay up to keep vigil, and when he sees everyone, he will realize he is dead and will know he has to go to the other side.”
The other side of what, she doesn’t say.
You’re not sure how much to believe of what Biaojie tells you—after all, she is only one year older than you—but she has the ease and confidence to talk to any child or adult and find out such things. You envy her. It is true that everyone is staying until the end of the week, so maybe your cousin is right.
“Have you ever seen a ghost?” she asks.
You think about First Uncle and how you spoke to him not that long ago, but you say nothing.
“Neither have I, but I’m hoping to get scared!”
You think about ghosts and you are no longer scared by them. Since you came to this New Land, you are no longer a child who is scared of monsters or fox spirits or rotting, hopping vampires. You stand against the dark and your heart is calm and big. You know what you are scared of in this world and that is people and their expectations and hatred and unkindness.
You look up. Inside the Room on the Roof, the eye opens, neon purple against the black sky. It sees you and then closes again.
* * *
During the following week, while everyone waits for Ba Ba to show up, all your relatives pile into the rented van and Ailing drives them around sightseeing and shopping. There are certain things that all the adults want: massive bottles of fish oil capsules, massive tubs of moisturizing cream, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate, blocks and boxes of it, which they cram into their suitcases and which you are afraid will melt and stick together into a giant lump in the humid atmosphere back in the Old Land.
The kids, on the other
hand, want to pet the animals at the wildlife park, go to the beach, and find out if black swans are real. Biaojie and Biaomei regale you with their adventure stories while you, unfortunately, have to go to school. You can’t wait for the weekend so you can jump in the van too.
When Saturday finally arrives, Ailing drives everyone to the wharf and it rains all the way there. Huddled under the sheltered part of the boardwalk, eating the world-famous fish-and-chips off soggy paper, you stare at the choppy grey water. Your aunts complain about the price of everything even though they don’t pay for it. Your older cousins take photos of each other with a disposable camera that will turn out blurry and dark when they are developed. Everyone shuffles back to the van. It rains all the way back too. You are thrilled by every second of it.
Ma Ma is happy for Ailing to be the tour guide, and she stays home with First Aunty, who keeps her company and brews her different nourishing herbal soups and remedies. You have never seen her happier, her eyes shining above a steaming bowl, as First Aunty does all the talking and she quietly sips. You quietly despise her for not crying about Ba Ba anymore, because you still do.
Ma Ma’s great big metal steamer is constantly hissing in the kitchen. She makes trays of kueh in all colors: seven-layer kueh in pink, yellow, and white; sweet blue rice with a layer of pandan—green custard—on top; red tortoises the size of your hand that open up to reveal yellow bean paste. She tries to teach Ailing, but Ailing is not very good at it and Ma Ma says it’s because she has lost her heritage.
Ma Ma even goes as far outside as the back steps of Big Scary and looks at the backyard, musing about growing long beans and bitter melons. You remember how the three of you as a family used to plant the same things in the communal vegetable patch back home. Ma Ma has clearly forgotten, as she does not make any mention of it. In your heart a kernel of resentment lodges and grows.
The week passes, and it is time for Ba Ba to come home.