Charlie Chan Is Dead 2

by Jessica Hagedorn

  “I didn’t do it,” she said, bolting out of bed. She knocked the table. Water splashed from the fishbowl. Yu banged into the castle and, stunned, drifted in place.

  “How many days has this been going on?” I asked.

  “I’m being framed. It’s Katy. She hates me, the fat cow.”

  “Hey—come on.” I rubbed Laurel’s shoulder. She winced and shriveled from my touch. She sat back on the bed.

  “Laurel, Dr. Brady’s explained what’s going on, right?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “So you know your body’s on the verge of—”

  “Yeah, yeah—breaking down my muscles. Blah, blah.”

  “Internal organs like your heart.”

  “Blah, blah.”

  “And liver.”

  “Blah, blah.”

  “And brain,” I said.

  Her body grew stiff, and I knew she must be exerting every ounce of energy not to cry.

  “You look scared,” I said. “Are you scared?”

  She nodded and turned away, and gripped the paperback with both hands. Veins puffed at her knuckles. “Everyone wants to make me fat,” she said.

  “I don’t want that. Neither I nor Dr. Brady is going to let that happen to you.”

  Her brows creased with suspicion. She shrugged and took up her book. I touched her arm before she could go back to reading. “I’m not going to let your condition get worse without doing something about it, okay?”

  She fidgeted, leafing through the book’s pages, her foot shaking violently.

  “We’ll talk more about this on Monday,” I said, rolling the towel into a ball. But I knew how it went. As soon as I walked out the door, she’d be counting sit-ups; by the time I got on the Bronx River Parkway, she’d be counting down from one hundred.

  I exited the highway into town. The defroster cleared the cloudy windshield. My feet felt clammy. They were sweaty yet cold. At the supermarket, I parked the car and headed inside. Wind sneaked down the back of my coat, making me shiver.

  The store was brightly lit, and bustling with the after-work commuter crowd. Cashier lines extended all the way into the dairy department. Half-filled metal carts cluttered the aisles, their loose wheels jangling like rusty tambourines. I resisted the urge to leave. Mark has had a long week, I told myself. The least I can do is have dinner ready when he gets home. I hurried up and down the aisles, filling a basket. I felt so hungry that I bit into an apple. Who knows what kinds of pesticides and germs were on it?

  I was waiting at the checkout line when my cellular went off. “Hello?” I answered.

  “Georgie?” Ma said.

  I remembered I was supposed to deliver Uncle’s allowance. The envelope of cash was in the zippered pocket of my purse. “Oh, shoot.”

  “Ah-yah—you forgot?”

  “I’m sorry. Things have been crazy lately.”

  “How could you forget? Uncle has nothing to eat.”

  I unloaded my groceries onto the belt. “I’ll drop off some food. Mark can fix dinner while I’m out.”

  She quieted the way she always did at the mention of Mark. Neither Dad nor she was all that happy that I’d married a hei ren, but with time, I knew she’d get over it. Taking off for Hong Kong had been Dad’s idea. “Mei mien zi,” he’d said. “How are we to show our faces?”

  This summed up what he’d told my sister, Amy, a born troublemaker who, after a steady string of F’s on her report cards, was caught shoplifting. He’d had her banished to a boarding school in New Hampshire. I felt bad, of course, since some of her problems must have stemmed from me—Ma and Dad constantly compared the two of us. “Georgie made straight A’s when she was your age,” they’d tell her. “Georgie got a perfect math score on the SAT.”

  Now, it was me, Georgianna, the one with the grades and scholarships and med school. I was the troublemaker.

  “Make sure to go up with Carlos,” Ma said. Carlos was the super at the St. Martin’s. It had been a decent residential hotel when Uncle moved in years before, but now, as one of the few remaining welfare hotels, it had a reputation for crack deals and urine-stained hallways. Ma had tried to move Uncle elsewhere, but he wouldn’t have it.

  The clerk tallied the groceries. Prewashed salad, a baked chicken, French bread, and a large bag of apples. “When are you coming home?” I asked Ma.

  “Ah-yah, I didn’t tell you? Your father’s buying an apartment.”

  My stomach bottomed out. They’re gone for good, I thought. For good. Most people were leaving Hong Kong in droves, what with all the doubts about the Handover, but not my parents. They couldn’t get there fast enough. I finished the last bite of apple, and felt hungrier than ever.

  “In Wan Chai,” Ma said. “Very nice.”

  Next to the cashier stood racks with magazines, candy, and every kind of baked treat you could imagine. Just looking at the Hostess cupcakes—chocolate with the promise of cream in the center—made my stomach growl.

  No, I reminded myself. You’re not hungry. You’re upset.

  I handed two packs of sugar-free gum to the cashier and then, after she had rung them up, ripped one open. I stuffed a piece into my mouth. Peppermint soothed my gums.

  “There’s everything,” Ma said. “Any kind of food you like—zong tse or xi tse—just go outside and it’s there.”

  I handed the cashier my credit card.

  I heard Dad calling for Ma in the background. “Have to go, now,” she whispered. I glanced at the cupcakes and casually tossed a two-pack onto the belt.

  Dessert. Everyone needs dessert.

  Mark was there when I got home. It was six o’clock and already dark out; I was acutely aware that my patients were sitting down to dinner. From outside our ranch house, I saw the changing light of the television. I entered through the kitchen, and put my purse and keys and the groceries on the counter. Mark had set the dining table with items from our registry: fine china, crystal glasses, silverware, cloth napkins. The lit candles were half melted. On each plate sat a tuna-fish sandwich and a large pickle. He had prepared mine the way I liked: quartered into triangles and with the crusts cut off.

  Mark was asleep on the sofa. He’d changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. Back in school, he’d been so thin—“skinny,” he called it—that he used to layer his clothes for bulk. Tonight, however, I noticed his Buddha belly peeking out from under the T-shirt.

  I tiptoed to the couch, took a deep breath, and blew on his stomach. It made a loud, farting sound. “Hey,” he said, awake now, his eyes pinkish and heavy with sleep. He sat up and yawned. I thought about Laurel, wondered how she was doing with dinner.

  “Hey there—you all right?” he asked.

  I sat facing him at the edge of the coffee table. “One of my patients . . .”

  “Up, up—get your head out of there. We worked last weekend. This one’s for us, remember?” He sneaked a finger under his glasses and rubbed his eye. We’d planned to shop for the house (we still needed a television stand and a desk for the study), maybe see a show, possibly dine one night at his favorite French restaurant.

  “Agreed,” I said. “But—”

  “But?” His glasses settled crookedly on his nose.

  I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I forgot about Uncle.”

  He sniffed my hair, which, like my hands, must have smelled of hospital. “Can’t it wait? The man’s not going to starve, is he?” he asked.

  “Hope not.”

  A vein at his temple pulsed. Even halfway around the globe, Ma and Dad were still plaguing our relationship. He yawned to cover his irritation and pushed himself up from the couch, his knees crunching loudly. He drew me to my feet. “Well, let’s do it.”

  “Honey, thanks, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Strangers frighten him.”

  “Never mind a black man like me, right?” He looked up to the ceiling, sighed, and I could tell he’d spoken before he could stop himself. “Forget I ever said that,”
he said. “Just go—get this over with already, all right?”

  At the St. Martin’s I double-parked in front of the building, my hazards flashing. I polished off a cupcake. My teeth sank through layers of soft chocolate cake into the cream core. Sweetness filled me up.

  I stepped out of the car and wind sucked the crumbs from my coat. The St. Martin’s as I’d remembered it was gone. The lobby window was cracked, and boarded on the inside with duct tape. The doorway smelled of urine. In the lobby, chipping paint revealed a layer of bluish wallpaper. The furniture consisted of a black imitation-leather ottoman, a desk chair, and a plastic lawn table. The elevator had an “Out of Order” sign. Carlos sat behind the front desk, feet propped on the counter and hands locked behind his head. His hair had grayed and thinned. He looked me over and nodded. “Your ma said you’d be comin’.”

  He labored to get up from the chair, and the springs squeaked under his weight. “Your face just like your ma’s,” he said. He searched through keys on a ring. When he found the one he was looking for, he locked his TV into a cabinet. We went upstairs. The red carpet stretched to the end of the hall. It was as spotted and matted as a sick tongue. The place reeked of body odor. “I’ll wait here,” Carlos said, at the stairwell.

  “Thanks for waiting with me.” I felt for the envelope of fresh bills.

  Carlos noticed someone loitering on the landing above. “Eh—you wanna drink, do it in your own room,” he said. He didn’t take his eye off the guy until the door shut. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. Now get going. I gotta get back to the desk soon, eh?”

  I stepped to the end of the hall. Today’s Chinese newspaper sat outside the door. A dark stain seeped out from beneath. I knocked lightly. “Uncle?”

  “Harder,” Carlos whispered.

  I rapped again, the sound of my knuckles against steel echoing down the hall. “Hello? It’s Georgianna.”

  I waited a moment. “Is he in?” I asked Carlos.

  He shrugged and nodded at the foot of the door. “Should be. Paper’s still there.”

  I tried again and again. My knuckles ached. I checked that the hallway was clear, then tried to shove the envelope through the crack under the door, but it snagged and ripped. Air streamed out warm and humid over my hands. It stunk of sour sheets.

  “Shoot,” I cursed, removing the torn envelope. I returned to the stairwell. “Would you mind?” I attempted a handoff.

  Carlos shook his head. “Sorry. Too many kooks in here to be gettin’ involved.”

  Right. I stuffed the envelope into the zippered pocket of my purse. Mark’s going to flip, I thought. As if it weren’t bad enough, what with the way Ma and Dad had treated him. Now this. I decided I wouldn’t tell him. What could I possibly say, anyway? I went to give Uncle money but he refused to open the door? Tonight, when Mark asked, I’d say everything was taken care of.

  Carlos cleared his throat. “You called?”

  Called?

  “Oh, you gotta call,” he said. “Your ma always called.”

  Much too early on a Saturday morning, the phone rang and rang, drawing me out of a convoluted dream. It was about Uncle. He was ringing our doorbell. There were vague bits about sit-ups and cupcakes, sheets of newspaper blowing over the lawn. I remembered opening the door, to have his head roll off into my arms. Mark nudged me awake. He handed me the phone and dropped facedown into the pillow.

  It took a moment for me to get my head straight. “Hello?” I said.

  It was Nurse Anderson. Laurel had lost another half-pound. “Put her on watch,” I said. “Dr. Brady in today?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Have her meet with Laurel, before you assign staff,” I said. “Notify me of any changes.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  When I hung up, I realized Mark was sprawled over three-quarters of the bed.

  “You hog,” I said, slapping his rear.

  He looked up from the pillow, bleary-eyed: What was that you said?

  “I’m sorry about last night.” I rubbed his arm. “Strangers really do frighten him.”

  “Let’s drop it.” He shifted onto his side. “You’re okay, I’m okay, we’re okay.” He drew me close and tried to wrestle and pin me to the mattress. I went for his underarms and tickled him until he flipped onto his back. “Stop, stop, I give up,” he finally said. He was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

  The phone rang again. This time, I was short of breath when I answered.

  “I’m so sorry, Doctor.” It was Nurse Anderson, stammering with embarrassment. I could picture her going red in the face.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Laurel’s mother is here. Dr. Brady tried to explain the possibilities of hyperalimentation. Mrs. Tung is adamant that we not perform the procedure. She wants to withdraw Laurel from the clinic.”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I said. “Just keep her occupied until I get there.”

  Mark buried himself under the comforter. I kissed him through the duvet. “We’ll do French tonight, okay?” I promised to make it up to him.

  At the clinic, I found Mrs. Tung at Laurel’s bedside. She was calm, smiling even, and feeding her daughter a spoonful of applesauce. “Choo-choo, choo-choo,” she cooed. “Chew-chew for Mommy.” Nurse Anderson flashed me this look—Guess who’s getting taken for a ride?—then excused herself from the room. Laurel opened her parched lips, her egglike eyes focused on her mother’s face. Between bites, she went back to reading out loud, her voice raspy and quick.

  Today Mrs. Tung had on a purplish-black top and matching skirt. There was a crease of shriveled skin at the back of her neck. She reminded me of an overripe Chinese eggplant: slender and without sharp features. She heard me enter and turned. We greeted each other politely. Static danced in her hair, and her skin sagged around the eyes and mouth. She had the look of someone who had, as the Chinese say, tasted a bitter life.

  “May I speak with you in my office?” I asked her.

  “Yes, yes,” she said, ready to feed her daughter another spoon of applesauce.

  “Don’t go, Mommy,” Laurel pleaded. The goldfish swam up for air.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. Laurel started crying. Mrs. Tung glanced at me for reassurance. Should I? Panic showed in her eyes.

  “It’s just ten minutes,” I said.

  Mrs. Tung nodded and followed me out the door. “Ten minutes. Ten minutes and I’ll be right back.”

  Laurel cried harder. She threw her book and screamed, “Grandma would never have dumped me in this place! She never would have left me!”

  Mrs. Tung froze in the hallway. She shut her eyes, and before Laurel could witness more, I swung the door closed.

  “You all right?” I asked, taking Mrs. Tung’s arm.

  She pulled away. “No tubes or pumps, hear me? Not for my daughter.”

  “It’s a very minor procedure.” I tried to keep my voice down. “We don’t plan to implement it unless her condition gets worse.”

  Mrs. Tung shook her head. “My husband says no.”

  Your husband has yet to show his face, I thought.

  I lowered my voice and explained. “Your daughter’s very sick.”

  “She eats every bite,” Mrs. Tung said. “Every bite I feed her.”

  I felt like shaking her. Can’t you see? Your daughter’s dying.

  A gasping sound from Laurel’s room caught our attention. Mrs. Tung looked at me. I nodded—Go ahead, open it. She stared at the door, took a breath, turned the knob. Laurel was on the floor, struggling with a sit-up, forcing elbows to knees. She shook from the strain. The grimace on her face—lined and weathered like that of a seventy-year-old—made me feel utterly helpless. Laurel’s determined to die, I thought, and ultimately there’s nothing I can do to stop her.

  I found myself at the corner deli two blocks from the St. Martin’s. It was close to five p.m. I’d missed breakfast and lunch, and my body was trembling. The store smelled of newspa
per and fresh-brewed coffee. The aisles were stocked with colorfully wrapped candies, boxes of assorted baked goods, and bags of snack foods. From the freezer at the back of the store, I grabbed a bottle of diet Coke. I considered an apple for a snack, but then noticed a box of éclairs. In med school, I couldn’t stay away from these. Six soft pastries, covered with chocolate and stuffed with creamy vanilla pudding.

  One wouldn’t hurt.

  My cellular sounded, and I nearly jumped into a shelf of Tastykakes. I wondered what I would say if it was Mark. I’d told him I had more to finish up at the clinic, and so we’d meet at the restaurant at seven.

  After the third ring, I lost my nerve and answered. There was a stat icky, long-distance pause. “Ma?” I said. “Is that you?”

  “Georgie?” she whispered. In the background, I could hear Dad’s loud, guttural snore.

  “What are you doing up?” I asked. “It’s six in the morning over there.”

  “Getting old.” I could picture her in her terry-cloth robe, pacing in the dark with a cigarette. “I worry,” she said.

  “Don’t.”

  She exhaled. I thought of Laurel struggling with her sit-ups—up, down; up, down—and a longing ache stuck at the back of my throat.

  “Oh, Ma. Everything’s fine. I’m fine.”

  She sighed. “Uncle all alone in that place. So dangerous. If only we could find him some place in Chinatown.”

  Who’s “we”? I wanted to say.

  “He’s fine,” I told her.

  She quieted. “Maybe you should take him out for food sometimes?”

  “Never mind dinner,” I said. “I can’t get him to open the damn door.”

  “You didn’t give him the money?”

  “It’s not my fault. This is my second time already.”

  “Ah-yah. You have to call first.”

  “I know that now.” I told her I was, even as we spoke, on my way to the St. Martin’s.

  “Take good care of Uncle, uh?” she said softly, and from the tone, I knew they weren’t coming back.