by Cara Chow
I look to Ms. Taylor for feedback. She nods. Her stained-glass eyes glisten.
“Well,” she says quietly, “I guess I accomplished my mission.”
The following Saturday, I deliver this speech in a cathedral to a congregation of classmates, teachers, and family members of the graduates. The congregation is large and far away. I must speak into a microphone to be heard. I cannot see where my mother is, much less what her reaction to my speech is. Sometimes I wonder if she is even listening to my words, if she understands them. I will probably never know. And perhaps that is okay.
Though Theresa is the one who got into the coveted school of all Chinese families in San Francisco, for the first time, I don’t begrudge her for it. I don’t even mind when Mom rubs my face in Theresa’s success. I just agree that Theresa is great, even when Mom says that she is better than I am. The first time I do this, Mom does a double take, and I pretend not to notice. Over the next several weeks, Mom’s comparisons of Theresa and me become less and less frequent. Eventually, they stop altogether.
Chapter Twenty-two
A few days after graduation, I get a card in the mail from Ms. Taylor. On the cover is a large white crane with its wings spread out. Inside, it says, Congratulations, Frances, on all your achievements, both inside and out. Underneath her signature are her current phone number and her future address in North Carolina.
The following week, I go to my first job interview and get my first job, at Derek’s dad’s law firm, which is is located in a high-rise building in the financial district of Downtown. The job is pretty boring. All I do is shelve books, file, pick up lunch, deliver interoffice memos, and look up and photocopy articles. Nonetheless, I look forward to going to work every morning, because Derek is there. Every day, we exchange glances and smiles between bookshelves when no one is looking. During lunch, we walk to the nearby sandwich stand and eat sandwiches and frozen yogurts.
Every Saturday, while Mom is at work, Derek and I pick a different place in the city to visit. On the first Saturday, we visit the Sutro Baths and the caves nearby. The following Saturday, we hike Lincoln Park and visit the Legion of Honor. The following Saturday, I ride the cable car for the first time. Then we visit Golden Gate Park, then the Exploratorium, then Alcatraz, and the list goes on. By the end of July, we are venturing across the Golden Gate Bridge to Sausalito and Tiburon. The more places I go with Derek, the more the Richmond District seems to shrink in comparison, until my spirit in Mom’s apartment feels like my body in the girdle Mom bought me for Christmas.
The whole time, Mom thinks that I am staying at home, doing nothing. I leave the apartment after Mom leaves for work and get home before she does. For the first two pay cycles, I hide the checks in my backpack, along with my bank statements, unsure of what to do with them. By the fourth paycheck, I know I have to do something. The most obvious option would be to go to the bank and ask a teller. I picture myself entering the bank timidly, asking Minnie for guidance. Very likely, the next time Mom visits, Minnie will mention that I came by. Then Mom will be on to my scent.
So instead, I consider asking Theresa. Then I remember that I never did tell Theresa that I had applied to Scripps. Initially, I figured that if I didn’t get in, it wouldn’t matter. Then, when I did get in, I was so caught up in the roller coaster of state championship, prom, and graduation that I didn’t have time to figure out when and how to tell her. Strangely, Theresa hasn’t brought up the subject of college either. And now that I am working on weekdays and seeing Derek on Saturdays, and Theresa is taking summer school and seeing Alfred, we rarely talk on the phone, much less see each other. Consequently, the opportunity to discuss my Scripps acceptance—and my subsequent escape plan—never arises.
Despite our busy schedules, Theresa and I finally make a date to hang out at her place in late July. In her kitchen, I help myself to custard tarts while Theresa makes Ovaltine, which tastes like malted hot cocoa. As Theresa stirs the Ovaltine powder, hot water, and condensed milk, I stare at Nellie’s corkboard, which still displays the articles about my CAA speech win in November. The paper is already starting to yellow. I stare at the round-faced girl holding the first-place trophy. My eyes lose focus, causing the articles to blur, until the CAA winner in the photo fades and disappears.
Theresa sets down two mugs. My cold fingers absorb the heat emanating from one of the ceramic mugs.
“So, are you excited about Berkeley?” I ask.
Theresa hesitates. She seems to be studying my face. Then a big smile erupts. “Yeah, actually I am! Alfred is going too. Isn’t that lucky?”
“That’s great!” I say. I hide my own sadness about not being able to go to the same college as Derek. I applied to Scripps, but they rejected me, Derek said when I commented on this to him. Which is too bad, because if I did get in, I’d be the envy of every freshman guy!
Theresa goes on to tell me about the Berkeley campus, orientation, and possible majors.
“You know, I’m so happy that you’re happy for me,” Theresa adds.
“I’m happy that I’m happy too,” I say. “I’m also happy that you’re happy that I’m happy. But most of all, I’m happy that you’re happy.”
We both double over laughing.
“When I heard from Mom that you didn’t get into Berkeley, I was afraid to bring up Berkeley at all,” Theresa says. “I didn’t want you to feel bad.”
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” I say. “I mean, look at what happened when you thought that way about the prom.”
Theresa laughs again. “Yeah, you’re right,” she says. “I’m bummed out that we can’t go to the same school. On the bright side, Berkeley isn’t far from State, so we can still see each other on the weekends.”
Suddenly, my laughter stops. I forgot that Theresa, like Mom and Nellie, would assume that I would be going to State.
“State has a good journalism program,” Theresa adds. “But if you don’t like it, after a year or two, you can transfer to Berkeley. I hear that your chances of getting in are stronger as a transfer student.”
For a moment, my jaw almost drops in shock. That’s almost exactly what Mom said!
I realize then why I haven’t shared my Scripps plan with Theresa. Underneath her skin, Theresa is like me, but in the marrow of her bones, she is more like Mom and Nellie. By helping me with speech, Theresa has already swum against her conscience. She probably rationalized that speech would help me get into Berkeley. But to expect her to help me with Scripps would be like expecting her to paddle up a waterfall.
I think about how things went when I asked Theresa to hide my first speech trophy. Maybe I could get Theresa to help me get to Scripps if I applied enough pressure, but I would once again be causing her to suffer more so that I could suffer less.
“Yeah, I guess I could transfer in a year or two,” I say. I take a quick gulp of my Ovaltine. It scalds my tongue, but instead of spitting it out and making a mess, I swallow it, sending a streak of fiery burn down my throat.
Because I am desperate, I end up explaining my situation to Derek the following Monday.
“I thought about asking Theresa,” I explain, “but she doesn’t need the stress of having dim sum with my mom while knowing that she’s an accomplice in my mother’s demise.”
“That’s okay,” Derek replies. “I’m definitely the better candidate for the job. I’m not planning to have dim sum with your mom anytime soon.”
Derek shows me how to endorse my checks and deposit them using my ATM card. When the ATM spits out my receipt, I feel a dizzying excitement at seeing how much money I’ve accumulated. I’m rich!
In mid-August, Derek must leave for Harvard. We agree that he should wait until I settle down at Scripps and give him my address and phone number before he gives me his. If he were to send me his contact information any sooner, it would likely end up in Mom’s hands. As with my Scripps package, it is not likely that she would pass it on to me.
For the last several months, I ha
ve been like a sleeper agent. Orientation at Scripps will be starting in less than a week. Now is the time to strike.
I find a travel agency close to where I work, and book a one-way flight to Ontario, which is east of Los Angeles, for one p.m. the next day. I hide my plane ticket in my wallet. That evening, after Mom has gone to bed, I write a letter telling her that I am leaving for Scripps. I will place the letter on the dining table tomorrow morning, right before I leave. But for now, I hide it in my backpack, next to my wallet.
Before going to bed, I review my secret itinerary. My flight is at one p.m., so I need to be at the airport by eleven a.m. I should leave the apartment by nine thirty, which means I should start packing at eight at the latest. Mom leaves for work at four thirty. So that gives me plenty of time in the morning.
I wish I could say good-bye to Theresa before leaving. Mom and I are supposed to spend this Sunday with her and Nellie, but I will be gone by then. I’m not sure when I will see Theresa again.
Once in bed, I am unable to sleep. I make myself unnaturally still, fearful that any tossing and turning will give me away. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep as Mom wakes and gets ready for work. As soon as she leaves, my exhaustion settles in, weighing down my head and my eyelids. When my alarm goes off, I nearly jump out of bed, as if hearing a fire alarm. I quickly climb down from the bunk bed and get dressed.
Fortunately, I don’t own a lot of things, so I am able to fit my clothes and toiletries into Mom’s old suitcase. Giddy with excitement, I drag the suitcase to the front door. Then I search my backpack for my letter to Mom. To my surprise, it is not there. Could I have forgotten to put it away? With a pounding heart, I search my desk, but it isn’t there either. Where could it be? Instinctively, I search my wallet for my plane ticket.
My plane ticket is gone. So is the cash in my wallet.
Images from the past school year flash before my eyes. My mother forbidding me to get a job, claiming that it would interfere with my studies. My mother’s eyes as they look me up and down before she asks me if any boys asked me to dance. Derek asking me why I gave him the wrong phone number. My Scripps package and my scholarships rotting in the garbage can under a pile of kitchen trash. My mother cornering Derek and me in the apartment after the prom. The crane on Ms. Taylor’s card.
My mother named me Fei Ting. Fly stop. The girl who stopped flying. My mother is clipping my wings. Again.
I can’t give up now. I can buy another plane ticket. I grab my backpack and run to the nearest ATM, which is several blocks away on Geary Boulevard. Sweat drips down my forehead and back as I insert my card. To my surprise, the ATM tells me that my card is invalid and spits it back at me. I try again, but the same thing happens.
Suppressing my panic, I board the bus to the red bank on Clement Street. A half hour later, I enter the bank. Minnie is sitting at her usual spot. Fortunately, there is no line. I approach her. She smiles at me until she sees the look on my face.
“Minnie,” I say, skipping formalities, “my ATM card isn’t working.” I keep my voice low so that no one else can hear.
Minnie’s jaw drops for a moment. Then, slowly, her look of surprise is replaced by a sad expression. “Frances,” she says gently, “your mommy closed the account yesterday.”
“But … it’s my account,” I say. “How can she do that?”
“It’s a joint account,” says Minnie, “so it’s hers too.”
“But … don’t we have to agree to close it? Don’t I have to sign off on it too?” I keep hoping to find a rule that was broken that will invalidate what my mother has done.
“No. Either person can close the account,” Minnie says.
“So … where did my money go?”
Minnie sighs. “Your mommy consolidated the accounts.”
“W-What does that mean?”
“She put the money in her account.”
I back away from Minnie slowly, until I trip over a crowd-control post. As my bottom hits the marble floor, that post and a couple of adjacent posts come crashing down. Everyone in the bank turns and stares at me. The security guard helps me to my feet and asks me if I’m okay. Ignoring him, I run out of the bank and lean my back against the wall. I slide down the wall until my bottom rests on my heels, and bury my face in my hands.
As I look down at my feet, I notice that I am standing in a puddle of dried urine. It reminds me of the homeless man Mom and I passed many months ago at this very spot, before school started. His mother should have helped him more, Mom said, and he should help her more. That’s the problem with this country. No family loyalty. As bystanders walk past, they look down on me with expressions of surprise and disgust, the same way I looked at that homeless man.
Humiliated, I pick myself up and take the bus home. Along the way, I reflect on my hopeless state. In the past, whenever my mother sabotaged me, I always comforted myself with the promise that I would escape one day. How will I survive if that is taken away? I wish I could call Derek, but he is too far to help me. Besides, I have no means of reaching him right now. Who else can I turn to?
Ms. Taylor.
I get off at the bus station near my apartment, which has a pay phone. Once again, the bus stop’s plastic covering has been shattered by vandals. The broken pieces, which blanket the concrete like snow, crunch under my feet. The phone has been scratched up. The receiver has that nauseating homeless smell. I dig through my backpack and fish out Ms. Taylor’s card.
With trembling fingers, I dial her number.
I get a recording saying that this number is no longer in service. Ms. Taylor has already moved to North Carolina. Though I have her new address, I don’t have her new number.
I burst into tears. I am angry with her for abandoning me, even though it isn’t her fault. My plane leaves in just a few hours. My window of opportunity is closing. Orientation and fall semester will begin without me. Should I just admit defeat and give up?
Wait. I have one last resort: Theresa.
I run from the pay phone to Theresa’s house. Each time one of my feet hits the pavement, a jarring sensation goes through my body. When I finally reach Theresa’s house, I ring the doorbell. Theresa opens the door. Her smile vanishes the moment she sees the look on my face. I blurt out the whole Scripps story, from the time I applied until now. Then I pause, hoping that she will have another clever idea that can save me.
Theresa gazes at me with a sad expression. “Frances, I’m so sorry to hear about what happened,” she says.
Once again, Theresa understands. She always understands. Tears of gratitude come to the surface.
“But you did get into State too,” she says. “Maybe you should just forget about Scripps and go to State.”
My hope begins to fracture. I fight to hold all the pieces together. “But … I never sent in my registration for State.”
Theresa gasps.
“It’s still possible,” I say. “To get to Scripps, I mean. Maybe you could give me a ride to the airport.”
“But what will you do once you get there?” Theresa says. “How will you fly to Scripps with no plane ticket and no money?”
“Maybe you could lend me some money,” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”
Theresa sighs and shakes her head. “Frances, this is more serious than just sneaking around to do speech. How will your mom feel when she comes home and finds you gone?”
My splintered hope erodes to sand. The harder I hold on, the more it slips through my fingers.
“You’re the only family she has,” Theresa says. “What will she do without you?”
I want to say, Well, what if you were me? Wouldn’t you do the same? But I know that were our situations reversed, Theresa probably would stay home and endure. The gap between us is only a few feet, but the real distance is the width of a canyon, too great to bridge with arguments.
“I know you want to be like Ms. Taylor,” Theresa says. “But that’s just an ideal. That kind of goal isn’t practical for us. Even Ms. T
aylor went home to take care of her mother when she got sick. Can’t you follow her example in that way?”
This is too much. I run away from Theresa’s house. The houses in front of me blur from my tears. At the end of the block, I double over, gasping for air. As long as Theresa, the perfect daughter, was on my side, I could convince myself I was in the right. Now I must face my self-doubt on my own.
If I forge ahead, everyone at home will see me as the bad daughter. I will have to face a year—actually, four years—of uncertainty, with no one to back me up. And what if I don’t like Scripps? Unlike Ms. Taylor, I wouldn’t be able to call home to cry about it.
But what will my life be like if I quit now? I will go to State, then transfer to Berkeley, then go on to med school or journalism school. My mother will stand over me, triumphant, her lips curled into a smile, saying I told you so. Any tiny victory I have will be like all the others, short-lived. Mom will find another way to get back at me and make me small again.
I look up, as if asking God for guidance. Black telephone and electric bus wires mar the gray sky. The jagged poles supporting them look like they’re leaning, ready to fall on me. The two-story homes that line the streets look like an army of bullies hovering over me.
Either I leave today, or I never leave. My window may be closing, but I need to squeeze myself through, before it closes completely. I have spent the last year sneaking around, battling Mom’s lies with my own. Now is the time to speak my truth.
I return to the apartment and sit on the couch. I make myself like a leopard hiding behind a bush, waiting for the wildebeest to cross the river.
Several hours later, my mother arrives. She is carrying her purse and the takeout for tonight’s dinner. I watch her as she closes the door and tosses her purse and the takeout on the dining table. She acts as if nothing unusual has happened. She expects me to play along. This makes me increasingly angry, until my anger overrides my fear.