Fish Heads and Duck Skin

by Lindsey Salatka

  Andrew came back and didn’t notice the fish head puppet show. He sat down, crossed his wet hands on the table and turned to me. “Daniel tells me you’ll be spending a lot of time alone with the kids.”

  “Yes, he’ll be traveling a lot, and that’s, uh, always been my job until now.”

  “So you’ve swapped both family positions and global positions.”

  I smiled. “Exactly.”

  “I bet you wake up wondering both who and where you are some days,” he said.

  I thought about admitting that even though our circumstances had radically changed, I’d often wondered the same things at home. Instead I said something that was also true, “I think I’ve been too overwhelmed to wonder much of anything about myself.”

  “Well, I know Kristy wants to help you when she’s not working, but most of the time, you’ll need to lean on your ayi to pull you through.”

  “I, uh—” Two waitresses balancing massive serving trays approached. They began to unload enough food for a mid-sized wedding on the lazy Susan.

  Daniel rubbed his hands together in delight. “What are we looking at?”

  Andrew pointed at the plates as they were set down. “This one is fried chicken with chilis which will make your tongue go numb but are also strangely addicting. Here we have broccoli with delicately sliced beef. This one is stewed eggplant braised with pork. Here are eggs delicately scrambled with fresh tomatoes. This is my personal favorite—sliced potatoes with peppers. And here’s the fried rice with mixed meat and vegetables.”

  “What exactly do they mean by ‘mixed meat’?” I asked.

  “The usual I guess,” he said.

  “But what’s usual?”

  He ignored me and continued. “Here are noodles mixed with onions in a sauce that mmm, smells like heaven. Three varieties of dumplings. Fresh cucumbers, peeled, sliced and drizzled with peanut sauce. Sweet and sour fish—”

  “Complete with head and tail,” I interrupted.

  “Because that’s how fish is served in China and many other places in the world.” He paused. “And finally,” Andrew said as the largest platter was placed on the lazy Susan in front of his seat. “The duck—an 800-year-old Imperial Palace tradition.” He spread his arms and looked up. “Happy birthday, Daniel. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please enjoy—” the waitress came up and whispered in his ear, handing him a small plate. He turned to me. “Your salad.” He set it down in front of me—a rectangular side plate with four leaves of soggy white iceberg, sheer at the ends, three slimy-on-the-inside, pruney-on-the-outside tomato wedges, and a small bowl of lukewarm white sauce.

  I looked at my pathetic attempt at comfort food as the aromas from the rest of the table wafted into my nose. I closed my eyes and inhaled, stretching my nostrils up and over my plate toward the delicious scents. “Cheers!” Andrew called and the three of them drank beer as I continued to enjoy breathing through my nose.

  “Uh, Tina? Cheers,” Daniel said and held his glass toward me.

  “Oh, sorry!” I opened my eyes and lifted my glass. “Cheers, honey. Happy birthday.” I air-kissed him.

  “This is family-style eating so please, help yourself,” Andrew said and then leaned toward me. “You may want to pretend that salad never came.”

  “Oh no, I don’t want to waste it.” I said, looking around my plate. “But, uh, do they have forks?”

  “I’ll ask,” Andrew said and waved at the waitress.

  “Behold, the skin of the duck,” Andrew held up a stiff translucent sheet, the color of baked honey, with his chopsticks.

  “Wow,” Piper said.

  “Nice,” Daniel said.

  I leaned toward Kristy. “Does Chinese food in Alaska taste like this?” I slurped the last bite of my third serving of eggplant off my fork. “I won’t even touch eggplant at home!”

  “I won’t touch Chinese food at home,” she said, flicking the fried rice with her chopsticks directly from her bowl into her mouth.

  I admired her dexterity.

  “Please place your plates on the lazy Susan, and I’ll do the honors,” Andrew said.

  “No skin for me, please,” I said as I plunked down my plate on the rotating circle. “Does duck have white meat?” I asked Kristy.

  She shrugged.

  “Just the tiniest slice of the best part for you, Tina,” Andrew said as he spun my plate toward him. He then grabbed a small circle of rice paper, a tiny spoonful of plum sauce, a slice of two different colors of meat, and a sprig of the stalk of a green onion—the part I’d always thrown away. He arranged them carefully on the rice paper. Next, he took his chopstick and broke off a piece of the skin the length of a toothpick and not much wider. He dropped it cautiously in the center of the pile and sent the plate back to me.

  It was delicious.

  “Can we go back there tomorrow?” Piper asked when I tucked her in that night. Lila was already passed out on her belly in her crib. She’d slept through half of dinner, too. That child could sleep in a train station.

  “To where, that restaurant?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mommy, that place has all my new favorite foods,” she said with a serious expression.

  “Really?” I sighed and smiled, remembering the flavors. “Which ones did you love best?”

  “The fish heads and duck skin, Mommy. They were so-ho-ho-ho-ho good. I’ll dream about them tonight,” she said and turned onto her side.

  I brushed her hair back from her forehead. “I’m glad you liked it. We’ll go back there soon, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  “Kids are amazing,” I said to Daniel as I lay next to him in bed.

  “Hmmm … How so?”

  “I mean, Piper and Lila haven’t missed a beat here. They’re exactly the same people they were before we left, but somehow, they get here, where everything about their life is different, and crazy, and befuddling, and confounding, and jarring, and they love it. I don’t know how, but they’ve already accepted this place.”

  “Except the people touching their hair.”

  “Right, but outside of that, did you know Piper already calls this her home? Shanghai is home to them, Daniel. She doesn’t ask about anything back in the US, not the kids, not the preschool, not the cat. How is that even possible?”

  “Because they have us,” Daniel said. “Everything feels like home to them as long as we’re in it.”

  I sighed. “I’d like to take credit for it, but I think it’s bigger than us. They’re adaptable, Daniel. They’ve adapted.”

  “You’re right. They have.”

  “I’m too rigid to adapt,” I said.

  “Well, you’re an adult.”

  “I’m a rigid adult. I’m stuck in my ways.”

  He said nothing.

  “And I’m highly judgmental. I’m like a mean-spirited robot.”

  He laughed. “Robots don’t have spirits.”

  “That depends on what movie you’re watching.”

  He paused. “Why does your kids being good have to mean that you’re being bad? Why are you comparing yourself to them?”

  “It’s an observation,” I said. “They’re not like me, and that’s good.” I paused. “Have you adapted?”

  “Hmmm. I think I will adapt, but as of this moment, not really. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve already seen in the factories—it’s beyond comprehension. The bathrooms …”

  “Everything here is beyond my comprehension, and I’m not getting used to it,” I said. “Not any of it.”

  “I know, I can tell. But you will, Tina. You can do anything; you can certainly do this.”

  I sighed. “I hope so.” I grabbed his good hand.

  “Just wait; you’ll be queen of this place before you know it.”

  “I’d be a great queen,” I said and smiled as I closed my eyes.

  I was Queen of the Latrine a couple hours later when the first wave of food poisoning hit me.

  “Tina, what happened? Are you okay?” Dan
iel asked, flipping on the lights in the bathroom. I was curled around the base of the not-so-clean toilet, whimpering.

  “No, I’m not okay,” I said. “Turn off the lights.”

  “Do you have the flu?”

  “No, I think it was the salad.” I felt another wave of nausea rise. I scrambled to sit up in time and drooped my head over the bowl.

  Daniel turned off the lights and sat on the tile next to me. “Andrew told me this might happen.”

  “He’s a fucking Know-It-All,” I said and sagged my head onto the tile again, heaving my right arm up and locating a cool spot on it to rest on my temple.

  “You said he was nice!”

  “He is, I’m just mad at myself.”

  “He said we need to start eating like the locals. We haven’t accumulated enough of the local gut bacteria to combat whatever might show up on uncooked vegetables here. He also said we should never eat anything that depends on refrigeration to not spoil. That white sauce …”

  I scrambled up and vomited again. “Can we not talk about it? Seriously. I’m sick enough.” I rested my head on the toilet seat and closed my eyes. “Can you please go now?” I said. “I want to wallow in misery by myself.”

  Daniel stood and walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  “Wait!” I cried with my last reserve of energy. I looked up with my head balanced on the rim of the bowl. He opened the door again and looked down at me with an expression I couldn’t read, but it wasn’t adoration. I wanted to tell him that I changed my mind. That I didn’t want him to leave me alone, not at all. Because I needed him more than I ever had. But then my hair felt suddenly heavier. The reason hit me as I considered the unfortunate proximity of my head to the basin.

  “Can you get me a hair tie?” I squeaked and vomited again.

  19.

  The next morning found Daniel on a train to a distant factory and me at the playground in the park with the girls, alternating between sweating, shivering, and yearning for a friend. I felt anxious and terrified because we were alone in this corner of the park and the playground equipment resembled the kind that had been banned in the US since the ’80s. Teeter totters that arced high, allowing ample room for finger squishing. Spinning platforms with greasy bars for kids to cling to as they kicked off, spinning faster and faster. Tall, steep metal slides with barely a lip on the sides. If I encouraged them to play on something more safe, they dissolved into tantrums on the ground—the foul, phlegm-riddled ground. I had choices to make and none of them ended well. It was the setting of a parenting horror movie.

  When I wasn’t gripped by fear and isolation, I reflected on how much my life had changed in the last month. Suddenly I realized it had been exactly one month since we’d arrived. It felt like we had been in Shanghai both longer and shorter than that. Longer because so much had already happened and every day brought new adventures and experiences we didn’t understand. Shorter because I still had so much to learn, and the more I learned, the more I realized I didn’t know. I wondered, would I ever be able to do this well?

  I suddenly wanted to talk to my boss. To drop myself briefly into a space where I was considered excellent. It couldn’t wait. I looked at the girls, who were taking a break from near-death fun to stare at a group of seniors who were slowly ambling toward the crumbling badminton courts on the backside of the playground.

  “Hello?” Chuck answered in a scratchy voice. Oops. It was 1:00 a.m. his time.

  “Hey. It’s Tina.”

  “Tina? Hi! Where are you?”

  “I’m in China,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Of course,” he said. “I thought for a sec it was all a dream and you were still here insomniating.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think that’s a word.” I heard him struggle and turn on his light.

  “So, Tina, how may I help you at this fine hour?”

  “I just wanted to know how everything is going there, you know, without me.”

  His voice perked up. “Well I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really like your replacement. I’m so glad you found him for me; he’s going to do a great job.”

  “A great job?” I snorted. “I mean he’s nice, and I’m sure he’ll work hard but—” I turned to pace toward an arrangement of rocks behind the rusty swing set.

  “No, he’s a real go-getter! Remember that deal you were trying to close at Loma Linda? He landed the contract last week. It’s going to be huge—a hospital-wide conversion! Even bigger than you and I were expecting.”

  “I created that opportunity, Chuck. It was in my pipeline. I was just keeping your expectations low so you wouldn’t ride me about it.” I clenched my jaw as I reached the closest rock and spun back around. As I planted my first return step, I glanced up at the kids. Lila had chased Piper to the sky-high monkey bars. Piper had climbed to the top and swung herself up to sit on the bars, dangle her legs and tease Lila, who was on the ladder reaching, reaching … I started to run, but I was too late.

  BAM. A full faceplant.

  “Wahhhhh!”

  “Well I think—” Chuck started.

  “Chuck, I gotta go. I, I gotta go.” I hung up just as I got to Lila lying on the ground wailing.

  “You okay, Lila? You okay??!!” Piper screamed. She was rocking back and forth above us, leaning over the side of the monkey bars to get closer to her sister.

  I picked up Lila and looked up at Piper. I couldn’t reach her if I put my arm up and jumped. “Piper, she’s okay. Just be still and stay where you are. I’ll come get you in a minute, okay?”

  Piper whimpered and continued rocking. “Please just wait, Piper. Please please please be still.”

  I knelt down to rest Lila on my knees and examined her face. Her eyes were wide in hysterics, but her pupils looked even. I wiped the dirt gently from her lips, eyelashes, and hair line as she heaved and sobbed. A small trickle of blood ran down her chin and a savage road rash bloomed on her forehead.

  “Oh baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” I held her to me and closed my eyes, stinging with escaping tears, and rocked both of us.

  Then I felt a cool shadow envelope us and looked up. It was one of the men from the group of seniors. He stood next to me under Piper, leaning on his cane, assessing the situation, nodding.

  He raised his cane to the bars. “Please turn and put your hand here,” he said, tapping one bar closer to the ladder. He had such a sense of peace about him, I could only watch and listen.

  Piper quieted down and did what he said. He tapped on the side of her hand.

  “Other hand here.”

  She followed his instructions. He tapped her all the way back to the ladder then stood under her as she wiggled her legs down to the top rung where his cane rested, then tapped her all the way down to the ground. She waited for his taps to move. I sat speechless, watching, rocking. As Lila’s screeches turned to whimpers, she pushed back so she could see what I was watching.

  Once Piper was down, he turned to smile at Lila with scarce teeth.

  “You speak English?” I asked him.

  He nodded. “Yi dian dian,” he said and held his fingers close together.

  I smiled and wiped my eyes. “Thank you very much.”

  He knelt down and scanned Lila’s face.

  “I have band aids,” I said. “Is there a water fountain?”

  “Follow me,” he leaned hard on his cane as he walked to a bench near the badminton court where he had a small leather satchel.

  “Water no good here. Clean with this. Boiled.” He handed me a glass canister with tea leaves floating in it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. Clean.”

  I took a Kleenex from my pocket and poured tea on it. I dabbed the dirt from Lila’s forehead and then pressed the tissue to her chin. I held out the canister and he took it from me.

  “You like tea?” he asked Piper. “Make you strong and healthy.”

  Piper nodded, and he poured her som
e in a small steel cup he detached from the top of his canister.

  She sipped it and looked at me. “Yummy,” she said and handed the cup back to him as Lila nuzzled her head into my shoulder.

  A woman from his group hollered at him over the sound blaring from a cassette player. She stood in front of the group slowly swinging her arms forward and backward to the beat of a man’s voice counting from one to five in Mandarin over and over again. Everyone in the group gently, barely dipped their knees as they swung their arms on number five.

  “I go to my exercise class now,” he said and turned to walk slowly away.

  I wanted to thank him for his kindness, for shifting our morning from disastrous to peaceful. But I had a feeling he didn’t care to be thanked again, so instead we watched him walk back to his friends who were waiting for him, and I realized it was time for me to make greater efforts to find some friends of my own.

  20.

  “The toy stores here are all crap,” Kristy said a week later at Starbucks. She mouthed the straw protruding from her iced coffee like a horse procuring a carrot, and then slurped the remnants of her cup loudly without breaking eye contact. “You can buy imported toys at the mall, but they’ll cost you a small fortune. Your other option is to buy local toys at one of the street markets, but they’ll break within five minutes.” She bit into her giant muffin and started slowly chewing, then stopped to say, “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”

  “Yeah.” I dabbed at my face with a napkin from the stack Piper had pilfered. I was sweating profusely and generally felt unwell. “It is seriously humid here,” I said. I looked at the girls, both passed out in the stroller.

  “That’s August for you,” she said.

  “So, you’re telling me not to buy toys?” I asked.

  Kristy paused. “Look, can I give you a word of advice?”

  “That’s why I’m sitting here. My kids are driving me bananas and Daniel’s been gone for a week. I need some toys!” My voice had grown progressively louder until the word “toys” ricocheted off the skyscrapers surrounding us, filling the hot wet air with its echo. People at the other tables glanced over as toys … toys … toys … bounced off the blacktop, the windows, and the concrete. I wrapped a napkin around a piece of ice from my coffee and held it to my forehead.