The 8th Sky_A Psychological Novel With An Unforgettable Twist

by Leigh Lyn

  “I’m not mad, Doc.”

  “Never said you were,” Dr. Wen said. “There is another possibility still.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was intrigued by something you wrote in your memoir. Of course, I should not speculate, considering the presumed power of insinuations.”

  “Just say it.”

  “You mentioned how you saw apparitions. You wrote how you had an eye for it.”

  “I did.”

  Dr. Wen nodded. “Can you elaborate?”

  “Okay. A recurring experience I’ve had since I was little was waking up in bed paralyzed while specters of people looked down on me. Terrified, I would pray and pray until they went away. It would take a while, but eventually they would.”

  Dr. Wen leaned back. “How come you never told me?”

  “And have you think I’m even more deranged than you thought?” I couldn’t help smirking. “Truth be told, I kinda believe in ghosts because, growing up, I always felt their presence. It was no big deal as long as I didn’t see them do things.”

  Dr. Wen scratched his chin. “A scientific explanation for these sightings is flashbacks; memories of people watching you while you slept, as a child or as an infant. It would explain the temporary paralysis.”

  Goosebumps appeared on my arm and, saucer-eyed, I stared at Dr. Wen, who announced, “I’m afraid your time is up.”

  At the crux as usual.

  After leaving the plans and drawings of Dr. Wen’s house with Frieda for his wife Karen, I joined the crowd in the streets of Causeway Bay, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the session. Who had watched me sleep while I was an infant? But then, who hadn’t been watched when sleeping as an infant?

  By the time I got home, it was way past the twins’ bedtime. But, hearing the front door, Maxy came out of her room with glistening eyes.

  “Tim is missing!” she cried. “I found two legs in the cage, but I’m not sure whether he escaped or had a fight with Kim.”

  Maria, our live-in helper from the Philippines, stuck her head around her bedroom door. Signaling to her I got this, she retreated, and I turned to Maxy. “Who’re Tim and Kim?”

  “My tarantulas!” Maxy’s gaze told me she couldn’t believe I forgot. “I called Ben, but he’s not answering his phone.”

  My heart stopped, hearing her mention Ben’s name. He’d catapulted himself into the position of her confidant after giving her the pair of hairy arachnids for her birthday.

  “Ben is busy, sweetheart,”

  The last time Tim or Kim escaped, I had called the Agricultural and Country Park Department, who told me not to worry. “Unless one is allergic, tarantula bites are not fatal,” they said.

  “Wouldn’t it be a terrible way to find out if one is allergic?” I asked.

  “I suppose, which makes it a good thing most people are not.”

  Not the reassurance one wanted in an emergency. A few days later, Maxy thought she saw something move under the carpet. I was relieved she caught Tim when she lifted up the carpet, even though she screamed when a leg came off.

  “Remember last time? Tim will show up, darling. And the leg grew back like the vet said they would.” I consoled her.

  “But what if we step on him?”

  “Well, we’ll have to stay off the floor then.” I lifted Maxy up and carried her to their room where Mimi was fast asleep. “Let me tuck you in and read you a story.”

  Half an hour later, I turned off her bedside lamp and returned to the living room to pour myself a drink then slumped into the sofa. I felt guilty returning to these ‘dire’ moments, knowing how often they had to do without me. It seemed my quest for the truth was impacting on them, and the time we spent together. To think I started off doing this for their sake, so they didn’t have to go through what I went through. What so many people went through. Like Yuxi, I hadn’t gone numb to the thorns in my mattress, which explained why I spent so little time sleeping in it. I plunged onto the sofa and closed my eyes.

  “Mom?” Mimi’s face was staring down at me. “Mom, get up?”

  Dazzled by the strong sunlight streaming into the living room, I sat up and asked, “What’s the matter, Mimi?”

  In her school uniform with her backpack strapped to her shoulders, she waved her thumb in the direction of the lift lobby. “We’re leaving for school.”

  “Are you alright?” I asked.

  “Why

  I be?” she asked, walking out the open door without bothering to close it. Sticking her head out of the lift, she yelled, “Niang called! She wants you to call her back right now!”

  I bolted up. After yesterday’s session with Dr. Wen, I’d arranged to have breakfast with her and had forgotten to set my alarm.

  “She said she’s been waiting for half an hour, and she sounds mad.”

  Chapter 40

  I threw my weight against the oversized, heavy door and scurried into the Hong Kong Arts Center in Wanchai. I was to meet Niang at their café on the fourth floor, which served the best Laksa in town. Scanning the full dining area, I didn’t see her and asked for a table for two, after which I went to the bar for something to calm my nerves. I waved the bartender over and was about to order when a hand clutched my shoulder.

  “You’re not drinking this early, are you?” Niang asked, standing next to me.

  The bartender stepped back.

  “I was just going to order coffee,” I sighed.

  “I have a table on the terrace. If you follow me?”

  I trailed after her outside where she had a table facing the flat-edged silhouette of Kowloon, punctuated by a few skyscrapers here and there.

  “I ordered for both of us already,” she said. “How was your trip with Ben?”

  “We’re taking time apart,” I replied.

  “Really? What happened?” She perked up her ears.

  Dreading an interrogation, I shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

  “Oh well.” She looked at me with eyes which, I swore, slithered. “Good riddance. I told you from the beginning someone as suave and smooth as him can’t be trusted.”

  Niang had never liked Ben, saying he was both a charmer and a player early on. She chattered on, “Anyway, I told the chef to put Sichuan peppercorns in the Laksa. I explained how good it is for the liver, and guess what he said?” She paused for effect. “He said, ‘Medicine should be medicine and food should be food.’” Niang raised both her hands in the air. “What kind of service is that?”

  “Ma!” I interrupted her. “Listen.”

  Tilting her wrinkled face at an angle, she asked with raised eyebrows, “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “Ma!”

  “What?” Niang frowned. “What is it?”

  “Uncle Ming is alive.”

  “Who?!” She jerked her head back.

  “Your brother, Li Ming.” I paused. Her eyes widened and bulged.

  “You mean, he came to you in a dream?” Niang leaned back. Shocked, she gawked at my face like she was seeing a ghost.

  “No, Ma, he’s alive. They tracked him down.”

  “Have you taken your medicine, Lemon?”

  “I hate it when you dismiss my words like this,” I snapped.

  “Lemon, my brother died many decades ago.”

  “For once, take me seriously and hear me out.”

  “Who are they and why are you tracking anything to begin with?” Niang asked. Her nostrils were flaring, her face flushed as she continued. “I’m ten years younger than him, but I was there, and I would have remembered if he had been around.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t around.”

  “Of course he wasn’t, Lemon. He died before I was born. Stop this nonsense.”

  “The only people who can confirm that are Grandmother and Grandfather, and they’re both dead. The records, on the other hand—”

  “Sod the records. Who knows if this guy you tracked is real or not?” She crossed her arms and smirked. “I don’t know who this person
is, but what you are saying doesn’t make sense. Unless he is not Li Ming but a cousin.”

  The Chinese call paternal cousins half-brothers.

  “I don’t know.” I mumbled, “They say he’s Li Ming.”

  Niang shook her head. “Why are you doing this? I’ve got a whole village full of living cousins who are all real, and you don’t bother with them.”

  “But what if it’s true, Ma? Tell me what happened to this half-brother of yours?”

  Niang continued shaking her head. “After he left in 1950, we didn’t hear from him for months. Then, the family got a letter from him, saying he misses home but can’t return because of his weak health. So, your great-granddad bought the first ticket the very next morning and got on the train to bring him home. The minute he arrived, the Red Guards captured him. They purged and interrogated him. He was what, over seventy years old? He died within three days.”

  Niang looked at me with narrowed eyes. “We were told my cousin helped the purging.”

  “You were told?”

  “A man from our clan happened to be there and saw it.”

  “Will you not give your brother the benefit of the doubt and listen to what he has to say himself?”

  “Half-brother. He never came back, for crying out loud. This is water under an old bridge, and no, Lin, I don’t want to give him the benefit. Your grandfather was an old man who would do anything for his children. There’s no excuse.”

  “So, you remember this half-brother?”

  “Of course,” she said, “he’s in the family tree in the ancestral hall of our village. Go check if you don’t believe me.”

  “I’m sure you remember, Ma. Did Li Ming have a twin sister?”

  “This question is even more absurd than the one before!” Niang exclaimed.

  “Just answer me, Ma. Multiple births run in the family.”

  “We have had our twins. Your great-grandmother had a fertility recipe.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Your great-grandmother was a legendary herbalist in her time who had an almanac passed on to her from her famous herbalist great-grandfather. I’ve been using his recipes on all of you for years. It works. I heard of a few TMC practitioners who have built successful practices on similar recipes. Why, where do these sudden questions come from?”

  “How come you never told me?”

  “Well, you never have the patience to listen to your old mother and, when you do, what I say hardly ever gets through your thick skull.” Rolling her eyes, Niang asked, “Where is this myth coming from?”

  “It’s in the records, Ma.”

  “The records in our ancestral hall?”

  “No, the hospital records, Ma,” I said.

  “Listen to yourself. I want you to stop this accusatory tone, Lemon!” She looked pained. “You’re driving yourself mad, obsessing about issues no one remembers while ignoring real ones. Get on with life, you stupid girl.”

  “Is this why you went to see Dr. Wen?” I asked.

  Niang froze a fraction of a second before she answered. “I was trying to help.”

  “Niang, you don’t have the right.”

  “That’s it! I’ve done everything for you so far, but you know what? I’ve had enough of your attitude and these ridiculous insinuations.” Niang got up, knocking her chair back into an unsuspecting waiter carrying a big tray. Laksa and condiments cascaded to the terrace floor and exploded on impact, perfuming the air with a pungent acidic fragrance.

  Without warranting the waiter a glance, Niang threw her napkin on the table. “I’m not putting up with this anymore!”

  She stormed back into the restaurant. Through Kowloon’s skyline reflected onto the glass between the terrace and the restaurant, I watched her leave after which everyone redirected their gaze from the closing door to me.

  A few days later, I flew to Chongqing to meet with Xiao Cai as I had promised Stephanie. He quite sneakily arranged a meeting with the planning bureau, but a promise was a promise. I’d just hopped onto a cab when my cell rang. It was Frieda.

  “We’ve triple-checked everything. We’re now sure the deaths of those two babies were never registered in any official records.”

  I told her of my talk with Mother. “Were my grandparents forgetful or were they lying?”

  The taxi driver cast me a quick glance in the rear mirror.

  “Or do you suppose a more serious crime took place?” I added.

  The taxi driver still watched me.

  “It’s not my place to judge,” Frieda hesitated. “Perhaps they played down parts here and embellished bits and pieces there to make life more pleasant. But I called to tell you we have tracked down an individual whose profile, history and data fit that of your uncle. Everything tallies so far: name, age, place of birth, blood group.”

  Twenty yards ahead of the cab, an old woman was crossing the expressway for some obscure reason, while the driver was watching me instead of the road, and I screamed, “Look out!”

  “TA MA DE!” the driver yelled, stepping on the brakes, and the cab came to a halt a few inches short of hitting her. Thrown against the gleaming back of the front seat, I growled as I picked up my cell, which had fallen onto the floor of the cab. Shi Gong’s murky eyes stared at me from its lit-up screen.

  “What was that?” Frieda asked.

  “Ta ma de!” the taxi driver swore again, buzzing down the window and showering profanities on the old woman, who opened her mouth and bellowed, showing a single gold tooth.

  “Sorry, Frieda,” I said, “that was the driver. You were saying?”

  “I said I’ve just sent you a photo of the individual.”

  Shi Gong’s image was still on my screen. Thinking I’d pressed a wrong button by accident, I closed the image and checked my phone for the photo of my purported relative. There was none.

  “I dropped my phone. It’s acting strange; can you send it again?”

  “Sure.”

  Shi Gong’s image appeared again.

  “You got it?” Frieda intercepted my thoughts.

  “Yes, but it’s not the right picture. Something is wrong.”

  “Bony old man, creepy eyes?”

  Was I going mad or dreaming? “Yes, but how’s that possible?”

  “It’s him. I triple-checked everything. His name is Li Ming, spelled l-i.”

  “My surname is Lee, spelled l-e-e!”

  “In Cantonese it is. In Mandarin, the Pin-yin is Li. Anyway, his address is registered somewhere in the lesser populated area in Sichuan where he works for a Biotech. It seems he actually lives at their facilities.”

  “I know,” I gasped.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve got to go, Frieda, but I’ll look into it. I’ll call you later.”

  Hanging up, I yelled, “Stop!” I braced myself using my hands against the shiny back of the front seat.

  “TA-MA-DE!” The cab driver shouted, ignoring my instruction. “We’re on the highway! Ta-ma-de!” He craned his neck to look at me in his rear mirror. “What is wrong with you?”

  I apologized, then said, “The harbor please.”

  “Goddamnit! Which harbor?” the taxi-driver barked.

  “Where the ferries are?”

  “You mean the docks? Chaotian Men? Where are you going?”

  “The 8th Sky,” I said. “I want to see about ferries up the Yangtze, which would take me to The 8th Sky.”

  The driver raised his brows. “G.Y.’s 8th Sky?”

  Surprised the driver knew, I nodded. “Yes, I want to go to their facilities in the mountains.”

  “Why? What business do you have with G.Y.?” The taxi driver was more than a little curious.

  “It’s personal.” I shrugged. “Do you know how I get there?”

  “I know a friend who knows,” the taxi driver said. “But why are you going there?”

  In certain areas, Chinese people still asked total strangers the most private questions, not because they were rude
but because they had little or no concept about personal privacy and many years of “revolution” had deregulated their sense of proprietary. Not answering these personal questions tended to build mistrust which, for decades, was not conducive to friendship or survival.

  “I want to check on a relative’s child at G.Y.’s orphanage.”

  It was the truth.

  “Your child?” he asked, peering in the back-mirror at me.

  “Oh no, I’m helping a relative. An elderly aunt, who’s too old to do it herself.”

  I gazed out the window at Chongqing’s hilly landscape, waiting for a reply. There was none.

  “It is a last-wish-on-death-bed kind of thing,” I added.

  Silence.

  “Well,” the driver said, sweeping across the full width of the expressway to the exit lane on the right-hand side. “The ferries only stop at towns and tourist spots, but I have a friend who owns a boat. He can take you.”

  Chapter 41

  The cab driver pulled up at the edge of Chaotianmen Square, Chongqing’s largest outdoor drawing room at the duck-beak-shaped headland of its peninsula. Toddlers waddled and chased after bubbles under the protective gaze of their grandparents, kids flew kites, and flocks of pigeons traversed the polluted sky.

  “Take a boat up the Yangtze,” the taxi driver said, scribbling something on the back of the receipt. “Go straight to the ticket office. Don’t listen or trust anyone who tries to sell you a ticket on the fly. Get off at Wushan and then call my friend, Xiao Xiong.”

  He handed me the receipt with a Chinese name and number on it.

  “I’m not going right now, I have business to take care off. I will go in a few days.”

  “Fine. Call him when you get there. Tell him Xiao Mo sent you. He has a boat you can charter for a few hundred dollars. That will take you up the Daning River, a side stream of the Yangtze, which passes right below G.Y.’s place on the mountain.”

  “How do you know where it is?” I asked.

  “I too have relatives and friends whose children are there,” he said and wished me good luck.