Nothing but the truth: (and a few white lies)

by Justina Chen Headley

  210

  29 * Unbinding

  On a rare, lucky day, I can shave a fraction of a second off my personal best time running a 10K. But more often than not, I'm a couple seconds over. Now, Mama, I can always count on for accounting accuracy, down to the last cent and down to the last second. It's how she was able to support two kids on her own.

  Precisely at five the next morning, her guest room door opens. I sit up straighter on the sofa where I've been waiting since Brian dropped me off around midnight. On the drive home to Auntie Lu's, Brian told me that drunk boys use their little heads to think.

  Little heads = big mistakes.

  I suppose if I had a little brain, Brian would have made me feel better. But I don't. Which means that my heart feels like a gym floor that Stu's used to practice his dribbling and shooting.

  The woman who has judged me every second of my life shuffles down the hall, toting a large black briefcase and pulling a trim suitcase. Her flight doesn't leave for another

  211

  four hours, but Mama's mantra is that you can never be too early finishing your taxes or getting to the airport.

  Even though I don't make a sound or a move, Mama somehow senses that I'm in the room. The sun has barely dawned, yet Mama's eyebrows are already furrowed in permanent concern. "Patty, what you doing?"

  I lift her secret box of hurts.

  Mama's breath whooshes out in instant recognition. Time may heal all wounds, but it doesn't seem to do much to obliterate certain memories. "Aiyo, Patty. Where you find that?"

  "Auntie Lu's office when I helped her space-clear." Was that really only twelve hours ago?

  I can almost hear every slap and every punch in Mama's answering sigh. I bite my lip, wondering whether I'm doing the right thing. Will bringing up her past accomplish anything? But if there's one thing I've learned from Mrs. Meyers's comments on every one of my papers, it's to "Dig deeper. Give me more." All my life, I've felt like my mouth has been bound shut -- don't ask too many questions, don't call attention to yourself, don't complain, just endure. It is generations too late to unbind my great-great-grandmother's feet. But the ties that bind my lips loosen enough for me to whisper the question I have to ask: "Why did you even marry him?"

  Mama's lips tighten the way they do when she doesn't think a subject is worth talking about.

  "Mama, I saw the picture."

  She sits heavily on the chair opposite me, her back to the tansu chest and the beautiful shoes that once hid a cruelty I can't imagine. I'm not sure she's going to answer, but she surprises me. "He so nice in Taiwan. We have fun on his motorcycle."

  212

  Motorcycle? If I needed more proof that I had no inkling of who Mama really is, I just got it.

  "I see his blue eyes. So blue like ocean, sky, freedom. Then we move to America, we have two babies, no money. He still in school. Lots of pressure. Then I know what his blue eyes mean. I lost in air. I drown in water." She sighs and brushes her hair out of her face. "I not trust him with you kids. He already yell lots at Abe. You so cute when baby, Patty. But you grow up. Not so chubby. Not so cute anymore."

  Once upon a time a couple of days ago, I would have bristled: Not so cute anymore? What? Am I ugly now? But now I'm just startled. She didn't leave Dad just because he was coming after her. She left because she was trying to protect me, too. As I shed my baby fat, I was slimming down and toughening up to become a future punching bag.

  Mama's lips purse like she's sipped a batch of my Tonic Soup. "Sometimes people little mean. It take long time to know someone. I not know him when marry him." Mama swats the air sharply in front of her, like she's fanning away a stench. "That so long ago."

  At PTA meetings and neighborhood get-togethers, Mama thaws slower than a glacier to new people, and I've always wondered why. Why the only people she considers friends are the ones she's known for at least ten, fifteen years. My eyes go to the luggage next to the front door. Always an escape exit at her fingertips.

  A lump the size of her homemade dumplings sticks in my throat. I'm not nodding my head like a bobble head. Not smiling through my hurt like a porcelain-perfect China Doll. It's been my personal policy since seventh grade not to cry in front of Mama, ever. She's so impatient with tears, proof

  213

  of weakness. I just didn't realize that she had no time to be weak.

  "That not important, Patty," she says. "What important now is you --"

  I complete her mantra for my life, "Go to good college. Get good job. Find a Good One."

  As fast as I wipe away my tears, another one rolls down my cheeks. So I duck my head and study the muted colors of the carpet, hoping Mama doesn't notice that I'm crying.

  "I not do good job," Mama says heavily, her words boring into my heart.

  I lift my head now and study Mama's downcast face, the gray of her badly permed hair. How could I have mistranslated the lines around her mouth as grooves worn from pure disappointment in me? Some of them might be, but those lines on her forehead and under her eyes are worry. The same worry that compels Mama to hoard articles about dead, dying and damaged girls is the reason why she flew out to check on me. It's not that Mama doesn't trust me so much as she doesn't trust the rest of the world.

  "No, Mama, you've been a Good One," I tell her. And I'm surprised at how much I mean it. She may not mother the way Janie's mom does with intimate talks that are more girlfriend than parent, with the easy understanding I've always craved, but Mama's been the Best One she knows how to be. And that is good enough.

  "There other boys," Mama says suddenly, patting me on the hand.

  My head jerks up to search her eyes again. How did she know? How did she know that the someone I hardly knew had hurt me so much?

  214

  "You get Good One later when you go to Stanford. Someone you friends with long time." Mama looks knowingly at me, her dark eyes that are so much like mine. "You want tea?"

  I nod because tea with Mama sounds perfect.

  An hour later, Mama is anxious to leave for the airport. She tells Auntie Lu that she can't afford to take any more time off of work. Otherwise, she says, looking more at my aunt than me, she would stay. From the way Auntie Lu nods, I know that they've reached some kind of rapprochement, but one I don't quite understand until I spy Auntie Lu slipping a newspaper article into the tansu. Before she does, I read the headline: "True Love After All These Years." Maybe Mama's decided that whatever Victor's faults and profession -- "What photographer do all day? Hunh!" -- he might be a suitable match for Auntie Lu after all.

  My heart squeezes hard when Mama slides into her rental car. I close the car door for her. Auntie Lu is right, I realize. Mama works so hard. Not just because of Abe. But for me, too.

  After a quick shower, I head back to Stanford and end up getting all sweaty again after eight minutes because I break into a run. I can't help it. I'm hoping the steady pace of my run will space-clear the thoughts cluttering my head. Instead, it's Palo Alto that disappears quickly under my feet.

  So little of what I've known to be the absolute facts in my life are true. I almost feel like calling Abe just to make sure that he's still a pain in my ass. But then I'd just wind up even more confused. Ever since I can remember, I've been jealous of Abe's relationship with Mama, how she dotes on him. How she revels in his every accomplishment. But who else,

  215

  aside from Abe, did she have when she first immigrated to America? Auntie Lu didn't even move to the states until after I was born.

  Soon, I cross El Camino, already congested with morning traffic, and run onto the Stanford campus. When Brian first drove us to the campus, I thought I had a good grip on who I was, but now I'm not so sure anymore. Am I Zebra-woman, trying to outrun a prison of my father's making? Or am I a buildering wannabe, trying to climb to a place I belong?

  Or am I just a Stu reject, a girl who's so easily forgotten?

  The ghosts of chants and cheers in the Stanford stadium urge me on: Ru
n faster.

  When I reach Museum Drive, I keep running until I'm on the south side of the Cantor Building. Modern and white, the art museum sticks out on this campus the way I stand out without trying back home. Of all the runs I've done here at Stanford, I've always detoured around the Rodin Sculpture Garden. I mean, who really needs to see The Gates of Hell in person when being a mixed-race, mixed-up teenager can be pure hell anyway?

  This early in the morning, I am the lone living soul among twenty bronze sculptures. My stomach churns when I reach the couple entwined until eternity in The Kiss. So I veer off to Rodin's masterpiece, gravel crunching beneath my sneakers.

  Hundreds of roiling figures are climbing, crawling, desperate to stay away from The Gates of Hell. Above it all, a miniature version of The Thinker sits, staring down as if he's debating whether to suck me into Hell. On the upper right side, I see the Damned Women, trying to wrench themselves off the sculpture.

  But I know their fate, and I don't want to be one of them.

  216

  I may be a damned exasperating daughter. And a damned lazy student. And a damned jealous sister. But I'm no damned victim.

  Even as I lay my hands on the cold bronze, The Gates of Hell slam shut in my head. The clanging scares away all traces of my nightmares.

  So I turn on my heel and walk away.

  Outside FloMo, I sit in the cool morning air that hasn't yet thawed in the morning sun. I don't have long to wait for breakfast to be over and for the students to stream out of the cafeteria, eager for another day of math.

  The first wave doesn't notice me, too busy gossiping about how I got so wasted, Brian had to drive me home. (This does sort of make you wonder how accurate grocery store tabloids can possibly be.) The door opens again, and this time, Jasmine and Anne walk out, their heads together. I know they're talking about me, but not maliciously the way Mrs. Shang would have -- Aiyo! See, this why you date good Taiwanese boy!

  Jasmine spots me first and rushes to my side. "Patty."

  "You OK?" asks Anne.

  "You bet," I say way too brightly. The way they look at each other, I know they doubt it. But honestly, I feel only a minor fracture in my heart. OK, the minor fracture becomes a major break when Stu staggers out. I tell myself it's because I'm not prepared for Katie, Ms. Afterglow herself, to be chirping up at him.

  To be honest, I've seen hungover before, but Stu looks like a walking victim of alcohol poisoning. If this were Boy

  217

  Wonder, he'd be hugging the toilet with "stomach flu" for hours. I almost feel sorry for Stu. Almost.

  Katie's so busy talking to her audience of one -- herself -- that she nearly runs into the Asian Mafia before she notices me.

  "If I were you, I'd hurry on along to class, girls," she says like a prim and proper lady.

  I step out of the shadows. In an amazing transformation seen only once before in the Western world, demure Asian girl inflates into The Dragon Woman. And I bite out those words every teenager who has ever been lectured dreads. And let me assure the world, I have been lectured. So I say, "If I were you..."

  The Patty Ho Lecture Series Lecture 1: If I Were You

  Greetings and welcome to the inaugural season of a new lecture series in an exciting format, melding monologue with martial arts. While this is our lecturer's virgin tour, she has a lifetime of pent-up material. The producers expect this series to he standing room only, appealing mostly to girls who are fed up with being walked on. So please, sit back, relax and enjoy the show.

  ''If I were you?'' I repeat in mock disbelief. "Try, you wish you were me." The Kung Fu Queen stares down the annoying puffball wonder. "But if you were me, you never would have hooked up with someone else's boyfriend. You never would have made snide little comments like you were better than everyone else. The truth is, you're nothing but a

  218

  big-haired silicone Barbie who needs her Daddy to buy everything for her. Except love. That, you have to steal." Hi-yah, White Girl!

  The Kung Fu Queen bows to her fallen opponent. "If I were you, I'd hurry on to class like a good girl."

  And then, I turn to Stu, who pales. Smart boy. But if he were really smart, he would have kept his hands to himself.

  "Pa... Patty," he stutters.

  I hold up one hand. "Save it. You're going to tell me you were drunk. That you made a mistake. News flash: you did." I cock my head at him, pun fully intended, thank you very much. "I was gone for one night. You couldn't wait for me for a day?" I shake my head in disgust. "When I walk away from you, take a good look at my hapa ass. Because you'll never have it."

  With that, I stalk off for math class. Jasmine follows me on one side, Anne on the other. Against my better judgment, I turn around to take one last look at Stu and Katie, who are both shell-shocked that the quiet, obedient Asian girl has actually stuck up for herself.

  Oh, silly me, I forgot the coup de grace. So I tell them, loud and proud, "I deserve better than you."

  219

  30 * Writer's Block

  Auntie Lu and I settle into a comfortable routine for the next few days like I've lived with her my whole life. We do yoga together in the morning. Or, I should say, she does yoga in the morning, and I stay in downward dog. Then she drops me off at Stanford on her way to her art studio. After my TA session in the afternoon, I walk home, help Auntie Lu with dinner and work on my problem sets for a couple of hours while she sketches. A part of me wonders what I'm missing in dorm life. I know I miss hanging out with Jasmine at night. And dropping in on Brian. And weirdly, I miss Anne, my Asian Mafia gal pal who I'll take over any China Doll.

  But mostly I'm happy to spend time with Auntie Lu. In a way, I think it's like living with Mama had things been different. While it's strange to be part of a real-world "what if" game -- as in, what if Dad hadn't calcified Mama's heart; would she be as open as Auntie Lu? What if Mama didn't bear the burden of being the sole breadwinner; would she surround herself with only beautiful things? -- I'm loving getting to know Auntie Lu as a proxy mom.

  220

  Besides, dorm life is just a couple years off, and I can wait. There are some perks to being away from the dorm, like not having to see Katie and Stu more than I have to in class. She pretty much stays out of my Hi-Yah! way. So I suppose this means that Malibu Barbie isn't as dumb as I thought she was. And Stu? Let's just say we're both still stewing on what happened, or didn't happen, between us.

  Auntie Lu and I are nearly finished space-clearing her home. Nearly. You don't get rid of thirteen years' worth of clutter overnight. Or even over a week. But the house is more or less clean enough to start feng shui-ing without any more dire consequences. In hindsight, I should have consulted a feng shui book before I began on Auntie Lu. All the masters warn about space-clearing too quickly; hence, my deluge in not-so-fun discoveries about Mama and Stu.

  Feng shui is all about promoting the best flow of energy inside your home. When good luck comes visiting, you want it to linger. So yesterday, we began rearranging furniture and placing it in its most auspicious positions. That meant moving the sofa in the living room to the power-wealth corner. I noticed this morning that Auntie Lu had slid the bamboo plant (a sign of abundance) into the relationship area. I'm guessing that with the mysterious Victor coming home today, she wants to reinforce their love life. Naysayers can snicker all they want about feng shui being a crock of cow dung. But thousands of years of practice in China can't be all wrong. All I can say is that I'm sleeping better now that my feet aren't pointing at the door in the death position. (I made Auntie Lu help me move the sofa bed so I'm facing west.)

  While Auntie Lu is doing some last-minute cleaning for Victor's return, I'm out on the patio, supposedly writing my

  221

  Truth Statement. What I'm really doing is coloring. There are 5,880 squares on each sheet of graph paper. Half of them are now filled in with black pen. As far as checkerboards go, it's a nice grid. Only I don't think Mrs. Meyers is going to be as impr
essed as I am.

  The problem is, I don't know how to begin. Or where.

  "That's a heavy sigh," says Auntie Lu, carrying out a tray with soy crackers and iced tea. She glances down at my grid-locked page. Instead of launching into a lecture, Auntie Lu says "Oh" like she's been trapped inside one of those squares before, too. "Writer's block, huh?"

  "I don't know what my teacher wants!"

  "Maybe that's the point. Don't think about pleasing her. Write about yourself," says Auntie Lu. She sets down the tray carefully.

  "How can I do that without bringing in Mama and the whole Dad mess?"

  Auntie Lu's jade bracelets clink together as she pours the iced tea and hands me a glass. "I don't think you can avoid it. Your story starts with them." She takes a long drink of her tea. "But it doesn't have to end with them."

  Confusion say: Ah, so, Auntie Lu. You not make no sense.

  But then, she does. My hand dips to my belly button. Belly-button Grandmother's predictions, and the reason why I came to Stanford in the first place. How the very suggestion of me ending up with a white guy cemented my destiny at math camp. Only an Asian guy broke my heart.

  I start to write. Just like Mama when she's hunkered down with some panicking procrastinator's tax form on April 14, I mumble an absentminded "uh-huh" when Auntie Lu says she's going to space-clear the hallway closet. (That's in the

  222

  relationship corner of her front hall.) I smile to myself and keep on writing.

  The sun is fading when Auntie Lu calls me inside to help with dinner. My head is still fogged in with words and thoughts. I'm hardly aware of the Chinese broccoli I'm washing until Auntie Lu waltzes in, smelling like a field of jasmine. I blink twice. Auntie Lu is wearing a curve-fitting, hoochie-mama red dress. And a full face of makeup. "Oh, my God! Auntie Lu, you're hot!" I say. She just bustles around the kitchen doing absolutely nothing: lifting random pots, moving napkins, adjusting the salt-shaker. I bump her with my hip on her second circuit around the kitchen island. "You're nervous about seeing Victor."