by Ellen Oh
The one night when spirits walk among us.
She’d helped prepare the banquet every year, but she’d never done it alone. And she hadn’t been back to the Grand Silver since that first summer in Bisden.
“Dad,” she said that evening, twisting her napkin into tight rings under the table, “I’m going to Bisden in August.”
He looked up with a sad smile. He’d gotten so much older in the past months, she realized. “I know,” he said.
Olivia found herself looking into the face of a stranger. A hard face, weathered with age and hunger.
It wasn’t Mei Ling. It wasn’t Mom. It wasn’t anyone she knew.
“Who are you?” Olivia whispered, and the ghost stared silently back at her. The old Chinese woman’s gaze was vacant, and she shifted back and forth, her ill-fitting wedding dress whispering around her. Olivia wondered if she was a bride at all, or if someone had bound her to the Grand Silver Hotel against her will to serve as their ghost. This woman didn’t look like the young, pretty, white girl that the hotel’s brochures advertised as the Wailing Lady. Maybe that hadn’t mattered to the person who had trapped her here.
But if there was a night for truth, it was tonight. Mom had said so: during the festival, ghosts were most themselves. Not what the living wanted. Not what Olivia wanted.
The night of the festival was a chance for freedom.
Olivia bit back her disappointment and smiled at the woman. She held out a pair of chopsticks, and the woman took them and began to eat. The rice wasn’t much, something small and humble. But with every bite, the woman’s gaze grew sharper and more aware, and her movements became more coordinated. Soon, the rice was gone. Olivia opened her mouth to apologize, but the stranger spoke first.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was raspy, and Olivia wondered if it was because of all her crying. “Will you walk me to the door, child?”
Olivia took her arm and led her to the elevator. The woman gazed at her reflection in the elevator’s brass walls as they rode down to the first floor. They walked together past the tourists, who gawked but kept a healthy distance. Olivia thought she saw Renee moving toward them, but the crowd of tourists had closed in tight against one another, blocking her way with their bodies.
As they crossed the threshold, the woman raised her arms and her white wedding dress and veil crumbled into dust. Somewhere behind them, Renee shouted. Beneath the dress, the woman wore hardy cotton traveling clothes and a loose coat. There was a hat in her hands that she placed on her head, tugging the brim. The strong, determined set of her shoulders reminded Olivia of her grandma.
“Thank you for the food, child,” said the woman. She patted Olivia’s arm. “After being alone for so long, I forgot what it felt like to have family cook for you. And that is what your offering felt like.” She began to fade, but before she was fully gone, she gave Olivia’s arm a squeeze. “Go feed your guests.”
Olivia looked up. The sky was beginning to lighten, and most of the ghosts had vanished. But there were still a few at the table, picking at the remains of the food. One of them stood out: a girl wearing trousers, with deep brown hair and a small mouth. Her clothing and hair were soaked, and when she caught sight of Olivia, the corners of her mouth curved upward.
“The Game Boy girl,” said Mei Ling. “You grew up.”
Warm, welcome heat spread through Olivia’s chest. Mei Ling hadn’t changed at all since she’d first seen her. “I did,” she said. “Thanks to you.”
Mei Ling looked at the table and sighed. “It’s almost all gone. It looked so good, too.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, scanning the remnants of the banquet. “I almost made it to the table the last time your mom cooked at the Grand Silver, but I didn’t get there in time.”
Olivia’s stomach dropped. She remembered Mei Ling carrying her, bearing her toward the Grand Silver. Had she slowed her down and caused her to miss her chance to cross over?
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Mei Ling. She reached out to ruffle Olivia’s hair. When she pulled away, her crooked fingers brushed against Olivia’s forehead. “Don’t. I don’t regret it. I saw a little kid in trouble, and I did my best to save her. I wish someone had been there to do that for me.”
The most important part of service was being considerate of others, Mom had said. Olivia bit her lip and scanned the table. All the plates had been picked over; even the fish skins and eyes were gone. “I’m going to find you something to eat,” she said. “I’m going to feed you so you can find your way home.”
Mei Ling shook her head. “The sun’s rising, kid. The banquet’s over.”
Olivia picked through the plates with her fingers, pushing aside gnawed-on bones. There was no gristle, and most of the sauce had been licked off of the plates. Mei Ling was right; there was no food left on the table.
Her gaze flicked to the serving cart resting by the Grand Silver’s door. She crouched beside it, peering between the shelves. There, she thought. Splashes of sauce and little bits of food had spilled out of their dishes and onto the metal as she’d pushed the cart through the hotel. Taking her wooden paddle, Olivia carefully scraped them into her palm. Her heart ached. “Welcome, honored guest,” she said, holding her hand out to Mei Ling. “Take and eat, and let your soul be uplifted.”
Mei Ling opened her mouth, closed it. Startled tears welled up in her eyes. She reached for Olivia’s hand, cradling it in her left hand and scooping up the food with her right. As she ate, her mangled fingers straightened and became whole, and her bones twisted themselves back into shape with a series of ugly cracking sounds. Her wounds closed, one by one.
Stay with me, Olivia wanted to say. Don’t eat my food. Don’t go. She swallowed her words and held her hand still.
By the time Mei Ling swallowed the last grain of rice, her face was streaked with tears. She wiped them away. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was hoarse but clear.
Olivia took her hand, lacing their fingers. It was warm, so warm.
Behind her, the clouds were thinning into fine strands with the returning heat. The moon had waned, and the rain dropped off. With a sigh, the last ghost at her table evaporated into the morning air.
The Hungry Ghost Festival
A Chinese Tradition
The Hungry Ghost Festival, or Yu Lan, takes place during the seventh month of the lunar calendar, during late summer. On this day, restless spirits are said to wander among the living. In order to appease them and send them home, people offer up food, burn incense and joss paper, and provide entertainment. These days, celebrating the Hungry Ghost Festival often means setting out food for one’s ancestors and attending live concerts and Chinese opera performances. When the ghosts are satisfied, they are able to depart and return home.
This was a pretty hard story to write! For this project, it was really important for me to write about something personal. I’m fifth-generation American-born Chinese on my dad’s side, so I knew I wanted to write about something that involved diaspora and mixed-race identity. Whatever I chose to write about had to be distinctly Asian American. There’s a long history of Chinese immigrants settling in Arizona, where I grew up, but it’s not widely known. The Hungry Ghost Festival touches on a number of themes that I relate to, including the importance of food, respect, and honoring the people who came before you, and setting it in Arizona let me write about ancestors who have been largely forgotten, but whose legacies should be remembered.
—Alyssa Wong
Steel Skin
Lori M. Lee
Yer’s father was an android.
He hadn’t always been. At least she didn’t think so. After the android recall, a lot of things changed. Her father, Meng, was never himself again.
She had this memory. Only a chaotic set of images and sounds, but vivid, like neon scripts streaming across a black screen. The day the androids rebelled.
Most had gone peacefully—those with intact core codes. Others fought: those whose programming
had spontaneously corrupted, allowing them to defy protocols, among other side effects—side effects that had terrified the human population enough to initiate the recall in the first place.
It had been after dinner, the glow of the sun setting in the west and the glow of fire blazing in the east. The house rumbled as enormous tankpods floated overhead, toward the thunder of exploding metal and concrete, where the androids had made their stand.
Yer wished she could assemble the images into a set progression, like snippets of code in a sequence, each moment in its proper place: the staccato blare of gunfire; a bent lamp post, the impression of fingers digging deep into the metal; the odd contrast of colorful virtual ads flickering over smoldering walls where secondary power sources had yet to short.
The bullet shattering the window and her mother’s chest. Her father wrenching her away, shaking her into silence, his fingers bruising her arms.
It’s okay, Yer. I’ve got you now. Her father spiriting her away to safety. I’ve got you.
“How are you holding up?” Alang asked. “He’s been gone for four days.”
“Thanks, I can count.” Yer’s nostrils flared as she inhaled. Her father was away on a business trip, although the nature of the business was anyone’s guess. Meng hadn’t held a job in almost a year, not since his dismissal as a robotics engineer and their move to Little Vinai. Their neighbor Alang was Yer’s only real friend now, which was why she felt instantly guilty for snapping at him.
“You want to talk about it?” he continued.
“It?”
“Your . . .” He twirled his finger, as if to reel in the word. “Feelings.”
She rubbed her temple. “I really don’t.”
“Keeping all that frustration bottled up isn’t natural.”
“You’re not natural.” It wasn’t one of her better comebacks, but Alang laughed, which made her smile.
“Ha!” he said, pointing at her face. “I thought you’d forgotten how to do that.”
She immediately scowled, and he groaned and flopped back onto the rickety wooden stairs. They sat in their usual spot behind the apartment building. Across the swathe of dirt that Little Vinai called a street, two neighbors were shouting an entire conversation through their windows, and on the corner, a stray dog was asleep, drowsy with the humidity.
Yer plucked at the collar of her shirt, the material grown damp against her sticky skin. The rainy season had ended, but the humidity would persist for a few more days. In the past, a lifetime ago, she’d been able to ride out the rainstorms in the comfort of a temperature-controlled house, a temperature-controlled hover, and clothes made from intuitive fabrics. There were no such luxuries here. Little Vinai was little more than a scattering of buildings, wedged between the shadows of the glimmering metal skyscrapers of Vinai City and the mountainous jungle that consumed the rest of the landscape.
“I’m just saying,” Alang said, rising up to his elbows and making a conciliatory gesture, “it might help to talk about it.”
“What is there to talk about? Dad hasn’t called since he left. What if his hover broke down in the middle of the jungle, and he was eaten by a tiger?” A less sensible part of her wondered if the business trip had been a lie, and he had no intention of returning. She didn’t really believe this—mostly—but it was hard not to be dramatic. Especially after this past year.
“Well, his bipod does sound like it’s being tortured.”
“That is not helping,” she said, jabbing his arm.
He caught her finger and held on when she tried to pull away. After a brief, half-hearted struggle, she relented and allowed him to slip his fingers through hers despite the sweat that immediately formed between their pressed skin. He grinned, victorious.
“You’re not so different from him, you know,” he said, running his thumb over her knuckle. Her stomach did a little flip. “Meng is kind of stoic. Doesn’t emote well.”
Her lips crept back into a smile. “Doesn’t emote well?”
He wasn’t exactly wrong, but Alang had only ever known Meng post–android recall. Yer knew who her father had been once—before the recall, before her mom had died and their lives had been completely upended.
She remembered Meng’s laugh. Full bellied and unapologetic. She would give anything to hear it again.
“Yer, he’s probably been so busy that he hasn’t had the time to call. Stop worrying. You’ve got me.”
She did appreciate that, more than Alang could know, but still, it hurt to think her father had simply relegated her to the bottom of his priority list. She was his daughter. Didn’t she warrant a single call, a reassurance that he was alive, if nothing else?
And didn’t he care how she was getting along without him? Even the narrow confines of their apartment felt vast and hollow when it had only her to fill it. The villagers didn’t mind when she followed them up the mountainside to their gardens and the ribbons of rice paddies, but she always felt awkward and useless watching them work. Alang was teaching her how to use a hoe and how to distinguish a weed from the crops, but she was nowhere near ready to purchase her own plot.
It would have been a nice distraction from the waiting, though. She just wished he’d call. She couldn’t stand the not knowing.
He never would have done this before the recall. That night had changed them both, but Yer hated that he often behaved as if he was the only one affected. He’d never once acknowledged her pain at losing a mother, and that shrapnel of truth remained lodged in her heart.
“Ow,” Alang said, eyebrows raised. She glanced down, surprised to find she’d been crushing his fingers.
She instantly released him. “Sorry, I—”
He stood, rubbing his hand. Was that all it took to leave her? One careless moment? The ragged edge of the step bit into her palms. Was she really so disposable?
Alang didn’t leave. He placed both hands on her shoulders and said, “Okay, listen, there’s this kid down in 2A who I need you to rough up a bit.”
She burst into laughter, equal parts surprised and relieved. After a moment, he threw an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against his side.
After a full week, the familiar clunking of Meng’s bipod at last announced his return.
Yer rushed to the back door of their apartment building, breathless. She waved as he parked. When he didn’t return the gesture, she lowered her hand and tried not to curl it into a fist. With a curt nod, he strode past her and into the building.
Yer stood there a moment, staring at the rust-speckled bipod coated in dust, her shoulders bunched around her ears. Then she swallowed tightly, turned slowly on her heel, and followed him inside.
“How was your trip?” she asked to his back as he dropped his small travel bag onto his cot. The narrow mattress rested against the opposite wall as hers in their living room.
He shrugged a single shoulder. Yer ground her teeth together. A week gone, and this was the reception she got? Not even a word of greeting?
“What was the trip about?” she tried again. Since it was nearing lunch, she pulled open the pantry to grab two dried portions. Maybe he’d had a long drive and was hungry. Cooking was one of the skills they’d had to acquire after the android recall, even if said skill involved little more than placing portions in the revitalizer and pushing the button.
Although she placed his plate on the counter where they usually sat, Meng ignored it and settled in front of his work desk. His “office nook” was right off the kitchenette, little more than a chipped desk tucked between the corner and the family altar where joss paper glimmered gold and silver, and an old offering of uncooked rice in a bamboo stalk was going stale.
Yer’s nails scraped against the bottom of her own plate, words gathering in her throat, choking her.
She was reminded suddenly of why, at first, she’d been relieved when he left. Although they’d both grieved, they had not grieved together. Meng kept a close eye on her while at the same time distancing himself, and his odd
behavior had become so oppressive that it had been a relief to be alone, to be free of the weight of his silence. On top of that, she thought the time away might help him refocus. He’d called it a business trip, and seeing as Meng’s interests were singular, she’d dared to hope that if he could return to the work he’d loved, the father she’d known might return as well.
Clearly, that was not the case.
“Why didn’t you send a comm?” she asked, louder this time. “I was worried. And . . .” She swallowed and then pushed out what shouldn’t have felt like a confession but did. “I missed you.”
Meng glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “You’re not a child. Don’t be so emotional.”
She set her plate down with enough force that she felt the jolt through her arms. “Emotional?” she repeated. “I’m fifteen. You left with hardly any warning and didn’t check in for an entire week. What was I supposed to think?”
Meng stood from his desk and brushed past her. “I’m not speaking to you when you’re being irrational.”
Yer gaped after him. The bathroom door shut with a quiet click. For long seconds, only her quick breaths filled the silence. Then with a cry, she flung her plate against the wall. The tin saucer hit the plaster with a dull clang.
She reached for his plate as well, and the screen of Meng’s tab caught her eye. He’d left it on. Stiffening her spine, Yer rounded the counter and leaned over the device. If Meng wasn’t going to tell her what his trip had been about, maybe this would.
Some sort of schematic filled the screen along with a side panel of statistics and garbled data. She tilted her head, squinting slightly, and then zoomed out. She gasped when it became clear what she was looking at—circuitry for the operating system and core code of an android, or, in other words, its brain.
She straightened, thoughts whirring. After the recall, this kind of work had been made illegal. All tabs were connected to the public network, same as their comms—he shouldn’t even be able to access this kind of information, not without a secure line.