The

Bath

By

Cherryl Chow

 The Bath

We have to keep up the tradition, of course. Never mind that it’s just me

and my brother Ge-ge, ages 11 and 13 respectively.

We’ve always bathed together even though Mama, who’s Chinese, says
that people in China don’t. But Papa is Japanese, we live in Tokyo, and

bathing together as a family is a Japanese custom.

Our house has a Japanese-style ofuro tub. The kind that’s deep enough to
sit and soak to your neck. The kind that’s large enough for a family of four to

sit inside together. It’s a squeeze, but we manage.

Anyway, Papa rarely joins us, and Mama only sometimes, so it’s really

just me and Ge-ge, with a lot of hilarity, screaming and splashing.

My brother and I don’t see a reason to end this tradition. Why should

we, just because our parents packed the two of us off to a condo in Hong Kong

while they stayed behind in Tokyo. Why should we stop just because our

world’s turned topsy-turvy. Why should we stop because we haven’t the

faintest clue about Hong Kong’s culture or customs or locate it on the map—
and we don’t understand a single word of the dialect spoken there —no, why

should we stop just because the amah, our Cantonese housemaid, shakes her
head, clucks her tongue, and brushes her cheek with her finger meaning

shame, shame, shame.

Why indeed. We made a pact, Ge-ge and I.

Or so I thought.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to the beginning when
Papa dropped the bomb.

***
 I know something is up.
Papa is home. Mama’s been busy in the kitchen all day. When she calls

us for supper, I see a five-course feast spread out on the dining table. Hot,
freshly cooked food covers the entire surface of the large, mahogany table that

seats eight.

I’m puzzled. There are no guests. It’s just us, and I can’t remember the

last time Papa joined. He’s busy. Very. He runs an advertising firm. He works
weekends. Weekdays. Weeknights. He comes home long after I’ve gone to

bed, and he’s still asleep in the mornings when I leave for school.

Yet now here he is, sitting at the head of the table as if he does this every

day. He doesn’t look up when I slide into my chair next to Mama. Ge-ge sits

across from me. “Itadakimasu,” Ge-ge and I shout and grab our chopsticks.

It’s a Japanese custom to say that before you eat. It’s like saying grace, only

much shorter, faster, and therefore—in my opinion—much better. In China

people don’t say grace or itadakimasu before meals.

Papa deftly picks a succulent shrimp with his chopsticks, bites its head

off, crams the rest of it into his mouth, sucks the flesh out of the body, and

spits out the translucent shell. I don’t know how he peels them only using his
mouth. I use both hands and even then, I always make a mess. I’ve already

smeared dark clots of sauce all over my face, hands, and blouse. I’m bathed in
the aroma of peppercorn and garlic.
“Ai-yo, you child,” Mama scolds, in her broken Japanese. She leans

over to wipe my hands. Her long hair falls in torrents around her face. She
sweeps it back with one hand, a gesture I practice in the mirror when no one’s

watching.
 “What a slob.” As always, Ge-ge coats his comments in scorn.
Mama ignores him. “Mei-mei,” she says to me. My family calls me Mei-

mei. It means “little sister” in Chinese. “Do you drown when—“

Mama has an annoying way of confusing the Japanese word “oboeru,”

remember, for “oboreru,” drown.

Ge-ge rolls his eyes. “Mama, that’s ‘remember,’ not ‘drown.’” He likes

to correct Mama every chance he has.

She brushes him aside and continues in her broken Japanese. “So many

times Mei-mei come home crying. Bad boys tease you. You drown?”

“Idiot boys.” I shrug, and stuff more rice in my face.

When I was little, I often had to hide from older Japanese boys who

made monkey faces and taunted me for being half Chinese, ‘Baka kaba,

Chindonya, Omae no Kasan Debeso. Stupid, hippo, sandwich man, your

mama’s got an outie.”

I don’t think chindonya is real, I’ve only seen them on TV. But all the
same, Papa warns Ge-ge and me that if we don’t study hard, we’ll end up

marching the streets like the chindonya, waving sandwich boards to the tune

of jarring music.
“Soon, no more bad Japanese boys,” Mama says with a sly smile.

“Da-da-da-da-da.” Ge-ge sweeps his arms in machine-gun-firing style.

“Are we gonna shoot them down?”
“Enough,” Papa snaps. I forgot that he was here. Ge-ge immediately

drops his arms and straightens up. “It’s been decided….” Papa interrupts
himself to pour some Kirin beer into a frosted glass. He sets the bottle down

just before the glass overflows, takes a deep breath, and faces us. “We’re
moving to Hong Kong.”
My heart drops. Ken splutters and sprays sweet barley tea out of his

nose.
“So wonderful. Right? Going to Hong Kong,” Mama chimes in. Her

eyes dart from Papa to Ge-ge, then lingers for a moment on my face. She

stands up to ladle a bowl of sizzling rice soup for me. Blocks of puffed rice

pop and crackle in the hot liquid.

I stare at the tendrils of steam rising from my bowl as I let the news of

the impending move seep into my brain. It’s snapping and sizzling like the

rice. Hong Kong? Where exactly is that? At the American School I attend

we’ve had to memorize all the American states and their capitals, and learn to

sketch in the borders of Italy, Switzerland, Germany, and others nearby. We

skipped over Japan, merely noting that it’s a small island. And I’ve seen the

large blob on the map that’s China. But Hong Kong?

“Cheh, cheh,” Mama urges me to eat. She has a habit of slipping into her
native Shanghai dialect.

“Eeee.” The sound of distress is all I can manage.

“But why?” Ge-ge sputters, as soon as he’s recovered from his gagging
fit.

“Business is growing. We’re opening a branch office in Hong Kong. Got

to stay competitive.” Papa slips a quivering morsel of fatty pork marinated in
pungent black bean sauce into his mouth, chews, and swallows. “We’ll sell our

house here and move to a condominium in Hong Kong.”

“Yes, but why do we—” I begin, but Ge-ge cuts me off.

“—why do all of us need to go to Hong Kong?” He completes my

thought.
“The business there needs my personal involvement. And besides,”

Mama and Papa exchange fond glances, “your mother has always wanted to
move out of Japan. We thought this would be the perfect opportunity.”

“When’re we moving?” I wipe my hands, once again sauce-splattered on

my sleeve, inviting a light slap on the wrist from Mama.

“In two months.”

“No more Japan,” Mama says, with a sparkle in her voice. “We all in

China, my home country.”

“Hong Kong isn’t China,” Ge-ge shoots back. “And you grew up in

Shanghai.”

Papa glares at him.

“But Papa, Papa, don’t they speak some weird dialect in Hong Kong?

We won’t understand a single word anyone’s saying.” In my agitation, I nearly

tip my soup bowl.

“They speak Cantonese. Nothing weird about that.” Papa takes a swig of

his beer. “Most people there know English.”

I stick my chopsticks into a platter of glazed chicken and chestnuts.

“Children very fast learners,” Mama says. “You speak Cantonese fast,

very fast.”
“Oh, one more thing…” Papa stops mid-sentence, attempts to dislodge a
fish bone caught in his teeth. “Your mother and I….” He puckers and twists

his mouth, finally succeeding in removing the bone and spitting it out, “…
thought it would be a good idea if you kids went to Hong Kong before us.”

I drop the plump chestnut I’ve just caught with my chopsticks.

 “I still have things to settle at the Tokyo office. And the house to sell.
Besides, you kids need to get ready for school at the new place. Get settled in

and get used to Hong Kong before you start at your new school.”
“But, but….” Ge-ge tugs at a strand of wavy hair from his forehead. He

always does that when he’s upset.

“Don’t worry, it’ll only be about a month before Mama and I will join

you. And you won’t really be on your own. We’ll hire an amah for you.” His
gaze travels back and forth between Ge-ge and me. “An amah is a Cantonese

maid. She’ll do the housework and cook for you two.”

“Amah, amah,” I mutter. The word sounds like a cry for help. My eyes

well up.

Papa tears into a packet of paper-wrapped beef. Juice squirts him in the

cheek. He flinches.

“Beef okay not-okay?” Mama glances at him.

“The best!” Papa gives a thumbs up. Always, words of praise for Mama.
For her, lots of words. For Ge-ge and me, very few.

Mama breaks into a big smile and turns to me. “Mei-mei, you happy

not-happy?”
I don’t reply. I just sit and stare at Papa as he devours the rest of the

dishes.
“But Papa, I don’t get why….” I can hear a catch in Ge-ge’s voice.
Papa slaps down his chopsticks, shuffles to the living room, and plops

into his favorite chaise. The one furniture in our house that’s dumpster ready
because Foo-Foo our cat targets it for shredding. I watch as Papa sucks on his

pipe and smacks his bald head with the palm of his hand. Feels good, he told
me once when I asked him why he did that. Keeps him from worrying about
work too much. What about work? He doesn’t say.

I hear Mama clearing the dishes, humming her favorite Chinese melody.
She only ever sings Chinese songs.

I push back from the table. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite. I know I’m

not likely to get any more information out of Papa. And there’s no point in

asking Mama. I don’t always understand what she says, especially if it’s
something complex. She’s like the contortionist I once saw on T.V. He folded

himself up like a paper doll and squeezed into a teeny tiny box. Kind of what

Mama does with the Japanese language. She twists and torques it to fit into

Chinese sentence patterns. Whatever she says, I just nod.

I sprint to my bedroom upstairs, grab a copy of Merriam-Webster’s

dictionary, and throw myself on the bed. Lying on my stomach, propping

myself up on my elbows, I open the dictionary at random. It’s a game I play

with myself. I read the words out loud, let them roll around my tongue and

taste them. My finger falls on the word “swell.” Even though I know the word,
I like to read the definition. To expand as in size, volume, or numbers; to

become puffed up; to become filled with pride and arrogance. I think of Ge-ge
swelling up with pride whenever he beats me in games of chess. So I read up

on chess strategies at the school library. And I started to win.

I flip the pages again. Destitute. Familiar word. Mama often argues

about money with Papa. I know, because I eavesdrop on their conversations.

They think I can’t understand because they’re speaking in Shanghainese. But I
listen intently and bit by bit, some of the words start to make sense. Like

“bankrupt.” Mama uses it a lot. Especially when she’s angry at Papa. Their
arguments don’t last long, though. They almost always end with Mama
looking pleased and Papa contrite.

I slam the dictionary shut, then open it again. My finger points to

“mirage.” An optical effect that is sometimes seen at sea or in the desert. I

close my eyes and conjure up Oshima Island. We went on a boating excursion

there. One of the few vacations we took because my parents are always so

busy with work. It was sunny when we set sail, but before we reached the
island, fog completely shrouded us. Everything was unreal. The waves were

choppy and I got sick. The trip wasn’t really a vacation after all. Turned out to

be a photo shoot for Papa’s work, with a former Miss China as the model.

Everyone made such a fuss over former Miss China, but I didn’t think she was

as pretty as Mama.

“Hey little snot face, ‘s the matter?” Ken barges into my room and yanks

my stubby ponytail.

“Ow, stop that.” I act annoyed, but I’m secretly pleased. I like it when
Ge-ge comes to find me in my room. Papa never does. Mama comes in only to

clean. But Ge-ge and I, we freely go in and out of each other’s room. We never

lock our doors.

“Maybe we can have a family ofuro, seeing as everyone’s home.” He

straddles me across the small of my back. I try to swat him with my dictionary,
but he jumps away.
I roll over to face him. “Ge-ge, where’s Hong Kong?”

“Look it up in your Atlas.” He points to my bookshelf crammed with

encyclopedias, dictionaries, mysteries, sci-fi novels, and manga.

Even less helpful than usual.

 “C’mon, let’s get the bath water started.” He bops me on the head. “I’ll
race you downstairs.”

He beats me as usual. He’s so much taller than me. My next project is to

check out books on running.

It takes a while for the bath tub to fill up. When it’s ready, I call for

Mama. “The bath’s ready.” She’s still washing dishes in the kitchen.

“Not now, precious,” Mama says. “You and Ge-ge wash.”

“Bath!” I yell to Papa. He’s now watching a wrestling match on T.V.

“Not tonight,” he says.

“Ge-ge?” He’s squatting on the floor by Papa’s feet, watching two men

in the ring pummel each other.

“In a minute,” Ge-ge grunts, grabbing Foo-foo in a wrestling move. She

struggles free from his grasp.

I decide to go in first.

Squatting on the stool by the tub, I scrub and rinse myself, then jump

into the bath by myself and wait for Ge-ge. I whip up eddies in the bath water
with my hand towel. It’s the Loch Ness monster lurking in the dark depths of

the lake. My vision is so vivid, I spook myself. When I hear the trundle of the
sliding glass door open and Ge-ge pop into sight, I’m relieved. He hops into

the tub without bothering to wash up first. Soon, we’re splashing, kicking, and
screaming.

***
No one mentions Hong Kong the next day. I start to think that maybe it’s
one of those stories I made up, but boxes start to pop up in the house, more

and more boxes. Each day I feel more unsettled. I’m here but not really here.
Everything is the same and not the same. I go to school as if nothing has
happened. In the evenings different tutors come to teach me Math, English,

and Science. I still have my weekly piano lessons, and Ge-ge has his violin
classes.

I started piano when I was four. I practice an hour every day. Today is

Saturday, so I’m sitting at my Yamaha upright by eight in the morning. After

my finger practice, I decide to try something different instead of the usual

Beethoven or Chopin sonnets. I play a tune I taught myself, something Mama

likes. It’s “Ye-Lai Hsiang”—Fragrance of the Night—a romantic ballad sung

by 1940’s beauties in Shanghai.

Sure enough, Mama’s lured to the living room by the sweet melody. She

removes her red-and-white checkered apron and beings to sing and dance. Her

skirt swirls, her arms rise and fall. She’s on stage, backlit by the sunlight

cascading through the collage of miniature stained glass windows behind her.

For someone her age, Mama moves like a girl. I can easily picture her
waltzing all night with the young men who courted her in a garden filled with

jasmine, gardenia, and lilies. That was before Papa won her hand. The story is

that Papa was a Japanese war correspondent in China. Enemies they were,
being on opposite sides of the war, but fell in love and eloped. That’s why we

have no relatives. Their families disowned them. Parents can do that. One day,
they feed you dumplings and bean-jam filled bread; the next day they refuse to
speak to you ever again. That fear always gnaws at me. My fingers stumble

and hit the wrong keys.

As if on cue, the doorbell chimes.

Mama glides to the front door. I peer over my shoulder. It’s a round,
squat woman. I recognize her as the long-tongued Cantonese woman from
church Mama’s warned me about.

“I can hear ‘Ye-Lai-Hsiang’ out the door,” the woman says in Japanese
for my benefit. “I tell you,” she chuckles, directing her remark at me, “In

Hong Kong, ‘Ye-Lai-Hsiang’ mean ‘stink at night’—before flush toilets, you

know, people empty chamber pots into streets. Popular joke.”

Mama’s face puckers into a frown before she scuttles off to the kitchen.
No matter who shows up, even unwanted guests, Mama serves tea and

cookies. I slip out into the garden. “Hahaha,” I mutter under my breath. “Like

that’s so funny.” I peer around the lush garden. Maple and plum trees, azalea

bushes and chrysanthemums….Mama has carefully tended them all. What will

she do in a condo? Can we have indoor plants? Will we have a balcony? I

have so many questions, but Mama just says, “You find out soon, no worry.”

I think I’ll call on some Japanese girls in the neighborhood. It’s been a

while since I’ve played jump rope games with Misako, Kyoko and Nori. I
head towards the red side gate that will let me out onto the street, but suddenly

realize it’s Saturday morning. They’re still in school. I go back into the garden.

I can play hopscotch by myself.

Skip, hop. Skip, skip, skip.

Stop. My eyes sweep the yard. No sign of Ge-ge or Foo-foo since this
morning. The only living creatures I see are the ants scurrying along the
concrete path.

Finally, I tell my 6th grade class that my family is moving to Hong

Kong. The kids regard me with blank looks on their faces. My best friend

Maureen bursts into tears. I’m surprised at her reaction. She’s usually so cool.
Nothing bothers her. She claims it’s because she’s actually a space alien hiding
inside synthetic human skin. She crash landed on Earth many years ago when

her space ship malfunctioned. Her real parents are supposed to come and take
her back to her real home. Soon. Very soon. It’s taking a little longer than she

thought because her planet is in a different galaxy. They better show up. I’d

rather go to outer space with Maureen than go to Hong Kong.

When class lets out, Miss Peach comes over. She’s my favorite teacher.
She’s everyone’s favorite teacher.

“I’ll miss you, Tai.” That’s my name to everyone outside my family.

“You’re a good student. You’ll do well wherever you go.”

I stand awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

She pulls out a book from her purse and hands it to me. “It’s mine but

you can have it. Mind you, it’s not a children’s book, but at your reading level

I think you can handle it.”

I glance at the title: “Lydia and Her Fractal Fears.”

Does Miss Peach know that my fears are replicating endlessly? Before I

can ask, she gives me a hug.

***
Little by little, Ge-ge and I piece together the jigsaw puzzle of our move

and why our mother can’t accompany us to Hong Kong.

Our housekeeper Sanae-san, who’s been with us for years, confirms our
suspicion. “You know how your father is,” she says, waving her arms and

bobbing her head like a drowning person. “He’s such a poor communicator,
without your mother, your father’s business would capsize like a boat.”

I feel a bit resentful about the put-down of Papa. But she’s not really
wrong. During school breaks, I’ve visited Papa’s office. Mama flits around
like a butterfly from desk to desk, chatting with each of the employees. She

speaks to the Chinese employees in Mandarin Chinese. And she speaks to the
Japanese employees in her version of their language. No matter what she

speaks, though, wherever Mama alights, the person smiles like a sunflower

gazing into the sun. Papa seems to have the opposite effect. Whenever he

stops to talk to his employees, their shoulders slump and the corners of their
mouths pull down.

***

Ge-ge and I question Sanae-san as much as we can. But she’s only

around on weekdays and she doesn’t speak Chinese so there’s only so much

she can tell us. One thing she does say is that the furniture stays. It’s too

expensive to ship overseas. More things to say good-bye to.

Mama helps me pack my clothes, but no stuffed animals, she says. I’m

too old for that. Can’t take too many of my books either. They’re too heavy. A
few paperbacks, yes. Dictionaries and encyclopedias, no. And before I can so

much as open my mouth to protest, Mama’s bathed and blow-dried Foo-Foo

and put him up for adoption. No doubt this is an excuse to get rid of him.
Mama has never liked cats. “Cats only eat, only sleep, no work, no slippers.”

In her mind, the ability to wear slippers sets humans apart from animals.
I might be more upset about saying good-bye to Foo-Foo if I didn’t feel
like a cat myself, stuffed into a carrier and ready for transport to the vet.

“Don’t worry,” Papa says. “You’ll like Hong Kong.”

***

The maple leaves in our garden have turned crimson when Ge-ge and I
leave Japan, just the two of us. It’s the middle of the week. School’s in session,
but not for us. Papa’s away at the office. Mama sends us off with tears in her

eyes. Sanae-san bows at us. We smile and wave.

We arrive at Hong Kong International Kai Tak Airport dragging four

suitcases, Ge-ge silent and sullen, me trying to pop my ears. When I do, a

cacophonous din ruptures the cocoon of quiet.

“Welcome to the Crown Colony,” Ge-ge says in a tone that means the
exact opposite.

Miss Wong, one of Papa’s employees, is waiting for us holding up a

placard with our names scribbled on. Her smile is soupy, thin and watery like

the rice porridge Mama cooks for me when I’m sick. Miss Wong speaks just

enough Japanese for me to understand that I’m never going to understand her.

When we step outside, a raucous, non-stop brawl of people jostling

elbow-to-elbow knock the wind out of me. I want to race back into the airport

and jump on the first plane that will take me back to Japan. I want to retreat to
our fenced house with its garden and the pond edged with irises; I want to

return to the serene neighborhood and the park brimming with blossoms of

every kind. But I know it’s hopeless. Like trying to talk to Mama or Papa.
We clamber into a cab. We ricochet down jumbled streets, whiz past a

mish-mash of green-and-white double-decker buses, blaring cars, and loud,

clangorous trams. Telephone wires criss-cross the hazy sky. Laundry flutters
from gritty windows and balconies. Street signs and billboards clamor for

attention in red, green, and white blizzards of Chinese and English characters:
Wing On Department Store, Wanchai Road, Queens Way, Optima watches.

By the time the taxi drops us off in front of a 12-story building

overlooking Fragrant Harbor, I’m so nauseated I’m afraid I might upchuck my
lunch.

“You’re looking green.” Ge-ge grabs my pink Samsonite suitcase from

me and lugs it along with his other two bags. Miss Wong takes my rucksack. I

feel pinpricks of sweat tickling my palms. My vision clouds over as I wait for

Miss Wong to unlock the multiple deadbolts on the galvanized steel double

doors.
Our new home.

Our apartment is on the 8th floor. It’s considered lucky. Anything with

eight is auspicious: it’s a good number, a fortunate number, a lucky, lucky

number.

I don’t feel so lucky.

The apartment is tiny compared to our Tokyo house. It looks unfinished.

The living space is L-shaped and boxy; there are no decorative touches like

stained glass, and no art on the walls.

Miss Wong beckons with her index finger. We follow her inside. The

front door opens into a dining room and living room. I see that somebody,

probably Miss Wong, has populated the space with a heavy sofa, a TV set, a
plain wooden rectangular dining table, and four straight-backed chairs for a

family of four. No piano.

I veer off from the entryway into a small bedroom and a bathroom, all
painted lime-green. “Your amah,” Miss Wong says. It’s the servant’s quarters.

I step onto a tiled balcony that faces identical balconies across a narrow
alleyway. All I see are the backs of air conditioning units sticking out like

mildewy buckteeth.
 “Mei-mei, look.” I follow Ge-ge’s voice to the back of the apartment
and find him on a balcony overlooking the harbor.

“Wow.” I lean on the railing. I can see the entire Hong Kong skyline
from here.

The balcony leads into two large bedrooms. Ge-ge claims the sky-blue

room; I seize the slightly smaller, powder-pink one. That leaves the third

room, the smallest, most undesirable, balcony-free room for our parents. Its
narrow window opens to a street. Across it are rows and rows of apartment

buildings similar to ours.

The bathroom is between our bedrooms. I gingerly step in and crinkle

my nose. The toilet and the bathtub occupy the same room. I find that gross.

What makes me really cringe, though, is the shape and size of the tub. It’s not

remotely like what we had in Tokyo. You can’t sit and soak, the tub is so

small, narrow, and super shallow. How can anyone fit into it, never mind two,

or four people? How are we going to continue our family tradition? I try—and
fail—to catch Ge-ge’s eyes when he pokes his head in.

Miss Wong suddenly materializes, holding a broom and a pan in her

hands. She sets them down on the floor, and leads us to the kitchen. It’s less
than half the size of the one we had in Tokyo. It’s a separate room with a

range, a small sink, and a grimy window. There’s a toaster on the counter and
a full-size refrigerator. And something else we didn’t have in our Japanese
kitchen—an oven and a dishwasher. I’m especially intrigued by the

dishwasher. I want to use it straightaway. First, I need to put something in it. I

happen to be thirsty, so I grab a frosted water glass from the cabinet and turn

on the faucet, but Miss Wong grasps my wrist. She pats her belly and
pantomimes the act of retching. The water isn’t safe? Miss Wong steps in front
me and pours me some water from a pitcher on a trolley in the corner that I

didn’t notice. With much gesturing peppered with a few Japanese words, she
shows us how to boil the water for drinking. I’ve never heard of not being able

to drink from the tap. It’s just like Mama and Papa to not tell us anything.

I bring the water glass to my lips and take a swallow. I grimace. The

water tastes lukewarm and flat. I’m so thirsty, I empty the glass. When I set it
down, Miss Wong has us carry our luggage into our respective rooms to

unpack.

The rooms are completely furnished with bed, nightstand, dresser, and a

low book shelf. While we’re busy putting our stuff away, Miss Wong gives our

rooms a few more sweeps with the broom. I fished out the one dictionary I

was allowed to carry, and put it right by the bed pushed against the corner

wall. It’s on the same side as the sliding door to the balcony. I pull out all my

other books, which fill up most of my suitcase. I neatly arrange them on a

small shelf so I can read the titles: “Endless Night,” “The Adventures of

Sherlock Holmes,” “Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe, “The

Chronicles of Narnia,” “Little Princess,” and “Lydia and Her Fractal Fears,”
the book Miss Peach gave me. I stroke the spine.

Next I grab a handful of blouses and skirts and stuff them into the
dresser drawers. It doesn’t take me long to put away all my clothing.
I wander over into Ge-ge’s room. He’s sorted his clothes into neat piles

of underwear, socks, shirts, and pants on his bed. While I stand there and
watch, he takes each shirt and carefully folds it so the edges meet, then lay it

flat in the bottom drawer. I don’t know why he makes such a fuss over details.
 Miss Wong appears, muttering something unintelligible. I get the vague
impression that she’s making up excuses. She hands us several packages of

instant noodles, canned fish, and flasks of water. She contorts her face into a
tepid grin, and with a final swish of her skirt, she leaves. The door shuts

behind her with a thud.

Ge-ge and I look at each other without a word. He breaks the silence.

“Let’s get up on the balcony.”

We peer down at the harbor. “Cool,” he whistles. “Look, look at that

ship.” He points each one out for me: sailing yacht, motor cruiser, speedboat,

rowing boat, junk boat. They’re just blurs, nothing but jigsaw puzzles, the

pieces upended on the water. Random. Confusing. My life.

We wordlessly watch the sun sink down the horizon. The sky turns an

indigo blue with swirls of reds and oranges. I think of the silhouette of the

Tokyo skyline I saw at the planetarium on a field trip not so long ago.

Something hot and wet rolls down my cheeks. Ge-ge squeezes my shoulder.
The bed is all made up. I tuck myself in. I close my eyes and imagine

the tickle of Foo-foo’s fishy breath when she snuggles with me in bed; I long

for the solemn silence of the oak trees in our garden. All night long, clamorous
sounds of singing, drunken melee and boisterous gambling float up from the

harbor, collide with the click-clacketing of mahjong tiles from the apartment
above, and drown out my dreams.
The next morning when I wake up bleary eyed, Miss Wong shows up

with a woman in tow. The amah. She wears a gray, shapeless, pajama-like top
and drawstring pants. Her straight hair, streaked with gray, ends in a sharp,

straight angle at the jawline as if to discourage anyone from speaking to her.

Not that we can, anyway. She speaks only Cantonese; not a word of English or
Japanese. We can’t ask her any questions.

Miss Wong doesn’t bother telling us the amah’s name, and she doesn’t
tell her ours. We remain standing at the door, smiling helplessly. The amah

grins, then gives her head a slight shake. After a few awkward moments, Miss

Wong hands us a loaf of bread for breakfast, beams a relieved smile at us, and

leaves us with the amah.

We don’t have to ask the amah to fix us lunch. She goes off on her own

and returns laden with an assortment of groceries, then gets busy cooking in

the kitchen. At noon, she presents us with a soggy concoction of unidentifiable

brown blobs.

Ge-ge and I stare at the dish.

He’s the first to dig in. He tries to lift the slimy food with his chopsticks,

but it proves too slippery. Finally, he uses a spoon and shoves the gooey mess

into his mouth. He immediately gags.

“What is it? Meat? Veggies?” I tilt my head sideways, trying to get a

different perspective.

“No idea. Maybe boiled plastic.”

I snort.

“C’mon, your turn to try it.”

Closing my eyes, I plop a spoonful into my mouth and swallow.
It’s out-of-this-world—I race to the toilet and retch—disgusting.

The amah clears away the rest of the blob, shaking her head and clicking
her tongue.

In the days to come, she repeats this gesture many times, any time she
disapproves of whatever it is we’re doing. Which, as it turns out, is everything,
all the time.

In the days to come, she whips up the exact same dish. Everyday. Lunch.
Dinner. Lunch. Dinner. Maybe she’s not capable of making anything else,

maybe she’s stupid, or just plain lazy. Whatever’s the reason, it’s the only

thing she ever cooks.

In the days to come, we grow to hate it even more.

I hunger for Mama’s cooking. I regret fighting with her about carrying

the lunch boxes she made for me packed with freshly prepared Chinese food. I

didn’t want it, I preferred the burgers, French fries, spaghetti, and fish sticks

served at the school cafeteria. Mostly, I didn’t want to be the target of teasing.

The girls were nice, but some of the boys taunted me. “Japanese, Japanese,”

they’d chant in that sing-song way I hated when they saw my decidedly non-

American lunch box. The teacher who was supposed to supervise never

seemed to notice.
Papa was disappointed in my lack of appreciation for Mama’s cooking.

He bemoaned that “complex notes,” the symphony of fine Chinese cuisine is

lost on me. Papa, who normally never speaks, becomes eloquent when it
comes to food.

“American food is for babies; Chinese food is for adults,” he explained

to me. “Let me give you an analogy…” He furrowed his brows in thought.
“It’s similar to the difference between something like ‘I Stepped on the Cat’

and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.”

I like them both. Is that wrong? As soon as he mentioned the Japanese

children’s song, I started silently humming it in my head, drowning out the

rest of his words. “I stepped on the cat, I stepped on the cat, Oh dear, Oh dear,
what shall I do, what shall I do, I stepped on the cat….”

Papa continued with his lecture over dinner. He picked a curly brown
wood ear, and instructed me to taste its subtle, smoked wood flavor, then to

contrast its texture with the shiitake mushrooms and shredded beef. “You don’t

just go for the bold flavors, you have to pay attention to the mouth feel.”

I suddenly found myself craving potato chips.

“All these ingredients add flavor and complexity to the dish. Now, these

are called anise seeds. They’re slightly sweet, reminds you of licorice candy,

right?”

It reminded me of how much I hate licorice.

“Pay attention, Mei-mei. A civilized person must understand cuisine.”

“Fuggetit, she’s a barbarian,” Ge-ge piped in.

“Stop that.” Papa shot him a look that would make sparrows drop from

their perches. “Your mother is an artist in the kitchen. Few can do what she
does. I hope you appreciate that.”

What I hope is that Papa will be here soon to explain everything. I’m

sure, though, that even he can’t identify the ingredients in the mystery dish
that the amah cooks.

***
When the phone rings, I’m startled. I’ve never heard it ring. It looms
black and ominous on the tall end table by the fat couch. It sounds louder and

brassier than our phone in Tokyo. Nothing sounds the same here.
Ge-ge beats me to the phone. He holds the receiver away from his ear

so I can listen in.

 I hear Papa’s voice, tinny through the millions of miles I imagine
separate us. I can picture him in the living room of our Tokyo house—our real

home—leaning into his favorite chaise, facing the abstract painting on the
paper sliding door with the black-and-white patterns that remind me of a

mirage over a lake.

“When are you coming?” Ge-ge shouts into the phone. I begin to dance

a little jig in anticipation of the news. But I see his face fall, and my heart
sinks.

It seems that Papa has to settle “some issues” with one of his major

clients before he can leave Japan. And naturally, he needs Mama’s help.

Mama grabs the phone. “Are you eating? You used, not used to Hong

Kong?”

“Not used to,” Ge-ge and I reply in unison.

“Don’t worry, we come soon.”

I’m about to mention the amah and her cooking, but Papa interrupts,
“We’ll call again.” Abruptly, he hangs up.

The dial tone echoes in the room. Ge-ge stares into space, as if he

expects Papa’s image to materialize on the blank wall.

Every week Miss Wong shows up to dole out our allowances. I can’t get

used to the strange bills and coins, but I know that it’s more than enough for
my brother and me to load up on as much bread, pastries, and candy as we
want. I still feel hungry though, so hungry. I crave udon noodles, sushi,

oyakodon bowls. Ge-ge suggests eating at a restaurant. It sounds scary. We’ve

never been to a restaurant on our own. But Ge-ge prods me till I nod yes.

We stroll down one of the busy thoroughfares in our neighborhood,

trying to spot a place we might venture inside. We see one with frosted
windowpanes and a carved door that reminds us of a Chinese restaurant our

parents used to take us to in our previous existence in Tokyo.

The minute we step in, I’m overwhelmed by the black-suited waiters

and stiff white tablecloths draped to the floor. I want to get out. But we’re

captured by a stiff-backed waiter. We’re flies in a Venus trap, slipping further

and further into yawning death.

We are directed to a table farthest from the doors and closest to the

kitchen. The menu is in Chinese. We can’t read it. Papa said everyone in Hong

Kong speaks English, but not this waiter. Because we don’t understand him,

we agree to whatever he suggests.

When the food arrives, I’m delighted to recognize a bowl of creamy

soup, a plate of thin-sliced beef, and fried chicken. I’m also happy there are no

vegetables. But I don’t know what to do with the silverware: knives, forks, and

spoons. A pair each, in different sizes.

“Pssst,” I set down my purse embroidered with beaded mirrors on the

cushioned chair next to me. Mama gave me that purse for my 10th birthday. I

lean across the table. “Which ones are we supposed to use first?”
Ge-ge puts on a stunned, I-dunno look on his face but quickly blinks it

away. He turns around and scans the room, as if to track the tinkle and clatter
of dishes. After a moment he whispers, “See the couple sitting behind me?
They’re getting ready to eat. Copy everything they do, and I’ll follow you.”

Giggling, feeling like an extraterrestrial, I carefully mimic each move

the couple make, down to blotting my lips with the linen napkin.

After that experience though, neither of us feel adventurous enough to

try another restaurant on our own. Street stalls are out of the question. They
give me the creeps. When I stand up on tip toes to look behind the carts, I see

flies swarming over mounds of dirty dishes.

***

Two months later, there’s still no sign of our parents. And little in the

way of explanation. We are simply told to wait. And wait. In the meantime,

Miss Wong hires a tutor for us to study Cantonese. Then a week later she
comes over to help enroll us in our schools. It’s already February, the middle

of the school year. Ge-ge and I attend separate schools for the first time. He’s

sent to a Catholic school for boys. I’m sent to an equivalent one for girls. The

curriculum is completely different than the one in the American School. The

classrooms are dreary. Everything is confusing. I close my eyes and picture

myself teleported back to Japan. It doesn’t work. Missing: cheerful photos,

cutouts, and student essays pinned on the walls. Missing: classroom

discussions. Missing: a well-stocked library with an informed librarian.

Missing: Music. Missing: Art. Missing: P. E. classes. Missing: a playground

with dirt and trees and grass.

I’m missing my favorite teacher. I’m missing my best friend.

The lessons are in English. The other kids speak Cantonese-accented

British English. They laugh at my American accent. In dictation classes, I get

points taken off for my American spelling.
The nuns who teach at my school wear habitual scowls. For the first

time in my life, I have to wear a uniform: a white blouse, a checkered tie in

various shades of red and burnt orange, and a matching pleated skirt. I hate not

having the freedom to wear what I want. I hate that all students have to stand
when the teacher enters the room, hate being made to stand when spoken to,
and hate that I have to stand before saying anything to the teacher. I take my

time getting up, dragging my chair on the floor, as if I’m chained to it by

enemy forces. The other girls titter.

Outside the school, I’m pelted by the rapid-fire speech of Hong Kong’s

residents. The Shanghai dialect that my parents speak at home sounds so much

more mellifluous to me than Cantonese, which I find utterly guttural. The final
rise in inflection totally annoys me. In Shanghainese, the word for “thank

you,” is Szah-szah-nong. In Cantonese the same word is a nasal “Mh Goi.”

Like a grunt.

My brother and I make fun of the Cantonese dialect; we turn it into a

game, incorporate it into comic routines.

Standing by the balcony in my brother’s room, he pretends to be a

stranger who accosts me on the street. He asks a question in Cantonese,

making sure to add an exaggerated upward inflection at the end for comic flair.
“Mui-mui, lei hui pin tou aaahhhh? Where are you going, little sister?”

“Ng hai ar waaahhh – What do you want?” I retort with mock

indignation.
We keep up this exchange until we dissolve into fits of laughter.

I begin to look forward to my Cantonese lessons where I can pick up

more words for our skits.
***

May. Finals are approaching. No news from home other than a few
phone calls and some letters from Papa. My letters to Maureen all go

unanswered. Maybe she’s been picked up by a flying saucer after all. Miss
Peach sends me a card and an illustrated copy of “Alice in Wonderland,” but
she says she has to get cataract surgery and then I don’t hear anything more

from her.
I’m upset Ge-ge and I aren’t taking baths together. What about our pact?

I want to ask, but I’m afraid to. Blame it on the teeny tub. If only they had

sento, public bathhouses, like they do in Japan. There was a large one in our

neighborhood in Tokyo. When we were younger, my brother and I used to go

there by ourselves, unattended. The first time we went, I was awed by our

voices echoing in the cavernous room surrounded by murals of Mt. Fuji,

swimming carp, and cresting waves.

Until I turned seven, Mama let me follow Ge-ge into the men’s bath in

the sento where we splashed, splattered, and hollered. The bath water was

scalding hot so we’d scoot up to the cold-water faucet and turn it on. Some

bathers smiled indulgently; others muttered under their breaths and fled to the

far side of the tub. I still remember the knobby-elbowed old man who cursed
us out as brats spoiled by clueless parents.

I remember too when I lost sight of my brother in the sento. I panicked.

Maybe I was six. I scampered back and forth, peering into the face of every
bather until I finally found Ge-ge squatting on a low cedar stool, scrubbing his

back. “Wow, Ge-ge is so big now I can hardly tell him apart from the
grownups!” I exclaimed to Mama when we were home. She laughed and
tousled my hair.

***
I spend my days alone at school. There’s no one I can talk to. After

gobbling down a quick lunch, I sit by myself on a stone bench, the only
seating area in the concrete-paved playground, watching clutches of girls
chatting. I search, but fail to find anything green in the playground, not even a

blade of grass.
A gaggle of girls, led by a tall, skinny girl, approach me. The girl has an

odd gait, a swaggering sort of kick that proclaims she owns the world. My

stomach tenses up. The girl stops where I’m sitting, almost toe-to-toe with me.

She fixes her dark, glittering eyes at me and jabs me on the shoulder.
“Little Jap,” the girl says in English. “Daddy says Japanese killed many

people in China.”

“What’s that got to do with me? Besides, my mother is Chi…”

“Japanese, Japanese,” the girls chant, drowning out my words. They

pivot on their heels and gallop away, howling.

My cheeks burn. I glance around. Several nuns keep guard by the

building entryways, their watchful eyes on the students. But they show no sign

of having seen or heard what just happened. I decide to take refuge in the
empty classroom. I just want to be left alone. Sitting at my desk, I dig out a

pack of bubble gum and holy trading cards from my book bag. I cram the gum

into my mouth and shuffle the cards. All the girls at the school covet these
cards. I bought all three packs the school bookstore carried: Archangels

Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, and others; Jesus of Nazareth and the Virgin Mary;
and all the great saints. They’re pretty, but I wish there were cards with manga
characters like Astro Boy, Cyborg 009, and maybe a ninja or two. I pluck a

card and turn it face up. It’s a luminous, full-color drawing of a long-haired
Jesus sporting a sun hat of a halo around his head. He smiles and points at his

bleeding heart around which coils a wreath of evil-looking thorns. No one in

my family has ever beamed at me like that. Mama doesn’t smile so much as
burst into a ditzy half giggle; Ken smirks; and Papa’s most engaging smile is

that of a spy who’s just crushed a poison pill with his molar.
I rub the glossy surface of the card. I could try to leverage these cards

into getting some of the nicer girls to talk to me. It’s already been a month

since I enrolled at Our Ladies of the Sacred Heart and I haven’t made a single

friend. Our lessons are all in English, but you’d never know it, the way
everyone chatters away in Cantonese. I can pick up fragments of their

conversation, but it blurs by at a speed I can’t intercept.

I slam the cards down on my desk and spread them out: Mother Mary,

Saint Teresa, Archangel Michael…. if I look hard enough, maybe I’ll find an

answer here. My dictionaries don’t help, and the library is so poorly stocked,

there’s no sense even trying. I’ll have to ask Papa to ship me some books, but

which ones?

My half-formulated thoughts are suddenly scrambled by a sing-song

voice in an unfamiliar accent. “Yoo-hoo, new girl!” I look up and see a girl

from a different class who I believe is from India, the only foreign transplant

besides me. The girl is half a shade darker than the other students. I envy her
dimples and enormous eyes.

“My name is Tai.” I try to smile, but I think I’ve forgotten how.
“Tai? I’m Meghana. Call me Meg.” The girl seems jumpy, as if she’s
just swallowed a tadpole or something.

I regard her with suspicion.

“I thought I better tell you—you know how the teachers make us copy

everything from the blackboard?” The girl flips her pigtail. It looks cotton-soft
and frizzy.
I’ve wondered why we had to copy the long, long passages the teachers

scribbled on the blackboard at every class. That’s all we spend time doing. Is it
to save money on textbooks? I’ve noticed we don’t have any. And we don’t

get any lectures or classroom interactions of any sort. It’s all just endless

copying, sometimes taking dictation. And lots and lots of chalk dust

everywhere. The one exception is the Math class. We have a textbook

crammed with problems to solve and no explanations. The teacher, Sister

Stefani, provides that. Then she makes each of us stand up and do calculations

in the head while she berates us for being stupid and slow. Each time I get

called on, I fail miserably. I expect the other girls to laugh, but they don’t.

Except for the real math whizzes, everyone flubs.

“You see, you have to memorize everything you’ve copied from the

blackboard.” Meg’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “You know, for the

finals coming up, you need to memorize every page. Every single word.” She
bobs her head.

I must’ve made bug eyes because Meg laughs. She continues, “The

answers to the exam questions are whatever the teachers have made us copy.
And you have to write down these same words, exactly the way you wrote

them in your notebook.”

“No way!” I clap my hand on my open mouth.
“I’m telling you, you have to, must to, memorize every single word.”

A door slams somewhere in the hallway. Meg flinches and sinks down a
little as if to hide from a sweeping searchlight.

I cast a wary eye around the room. We’re alone. Satisfied, I continue,
“You’re kidding me. You must be allowed to paraphrase. There’s no way it’s
got to be all verbatim.” I’ve been itching to use this word.

Meg regards me blankly, then shifts her gaze to the door at the far end of
the room.

I try again. “You have to write down everything word for word? You

can’t use your own words to say the same thing?”

“Yes, yes, yes, you got it. Thought you don’t know, no one tells you
anything here.” She reaches into her skirt pocket and thrusts a scrap of paper

into my hand. “Here’s my number. Call me after school. I have to go now.

Bye-bye!” She scurries off as if she’s being chased by invisible monsters.

I slip the paper into my skirt pocket, slump in my chair, my head cradled

in my hands. Eeeeee. Meg must be lying. That’s why she seems so nervous.

One way to find out.

Before going home, I stop at the homeroom teacher’s office. I’ve never

been there since my introduction on the first day of school. I’m nervous, but I
have to question her. What she says stuns me.

“Oh did I not tell you that?” Sister Matilda says. She has a hook nose

and a droopy face. Her surprise sounds feigned, and her voice has an edge that
makes me shrink back. “I should also add that for the Finals, you have to

memorize everything the teachers have given you for the entire year, and not
just after the Mid-terms.”
“But, but…” That’s all I can squeak out.

Sister Matilda glares at me with a stony expression.

I plead my case. “I don’t have all the materials from earlier in the school

year. I wasn’t here. Please give me a copy of everything?”

 “Ask your classmates.”
“But they’re not friendly with me. They don’t talk to me, and I doubt

very much they’ll help.”

“Maybe you should try harder to make friends with your classmates.

Instead of talking to a girl in an entirely different class.”

I’m shocked. She must’ve been spying on us.

“You are new, so I will explain to you. Meghana belongs to the ‘D’
class. These are students who scored the lowest in the entrance exam. You’re

in class ‘A,’ with the top students.” She scowls. “I didn’t think you should be,

but your parents were insistent, and somehow convinced the headmistress.

You are in the A-class on a trial basis only. Understood? It will not further

your cause to associate with anyone from the D class. Unless that is where you

think you belong. Have I made myself clear?”

I straggle home alone. Ge-ge’s school is on a completely different route.

I wish I could talk to Ge-ge about what the Sister said but these days his mind

seems to be elsewhere. I slosh through fish paste stinking up the sidewalks,

crushed by the crowds. People, people, people mill around elbow-to-elbow,

packed even tighter than in Tokyo. A man’s arm grazes my chest. I gasp,
shocked at how much it hurts. My breasts are unusually tender these days.

Maybe I have a rare disease, maybe I’m dying. If I had a piano, I could play a
requiem.

When I reach home, I hear the blare of what sounds like television from
the other side of the front door. Must be Ge-ge. I let myself in and yell, “I’m
home!”

Ge-ge grunts.
 “Guess what?” I begin. “I met this girl in school…” I realize he’s not
listening. I pad over to the couch where he sits. “You going out with your

friends?”
“Shut up,” he snaps. “Can’t you see I’m watching TV?”

“It’s a stupid Cantonese show. Thought you don’t like them.”

He grabs a cushion and lobs it at me, but I dodge. What’s he so sour

about? Seems he’s already making friends in school. He’s always been more
popular than me. Back in our previous life, all the neighborhood kids came by

to call for him, chanting, “Ken-chan, asobo, Ken-chan, asobo, Kenny-boy,

Kenny-boy, come out to play.” Ge-ge would then fly out the door as fast as he

could, with Mama shouting after him, “Take Mei-mei with you!” That’s how I

got to join their games.

But his new friends? Not so friendly. They whisper among themselves. I

hear snatches of “Brother this” and “Brother that.” Sometimes they shoot me

sideward glances, but mostly they ignore me. Except for one squishy-looking
guy with a squashed nose and a marshmallow mouth, who seems to eye me

often.

I’m still trying to make sense of what’s going on with Ge-ge when he
suddenly springs up and heads to his room. I follow. I’m almost at his

bedroom when he emerges, a book satchel slung on his shoulder.

“Where you going?” I crease my brows in an effort to show my
displeasure.

“None of your business. I won’t be back for dinner so don’t wait for
me.”

As if dinner is edible. As if I ever bother sitting at the table. I blow a

sigh.
Ge-ge taps me on the head. “Hey, mui-mui,” he says, using the

Cantonese word for “little sister.” He’s trying to sound silly. “Soon your face
will be as long as a pony’s.”

I seize the moment to aim a sweeping kick at his shin. He blocks it. It’s

been a while since we did our mock fights.

Ge-ge and I exchange a few more well-placed blows, but I can tell his
heart isn’t in it. I strike at him with more energy. He manages to dodge me

again, and then, with a carefree wave of his hand, disappears out the door.

I stand perplexed for a moment, then run into my room, grab my

dictionary and open it, then slam it shut again. It’s official. Ge-ge is acting

weird and distant. I fling the book on the floor and sneak into my brother’s

room. I know exactly where he keeps everything—better than my own stuff,

which I scatter haphazardly all over my room. His bed is always carefully

made (mine, never); his clothes hang in the built-in wardrobe (mine never
make it to the hanger) or folded neatly into his dresser (I can barely open my

dresser drawers, they are jammed with rumpled clothing). A small, low

bookshelf painted forest green serves as the home for neatly displayed
textbooks, notebooks, loose paper, pens and pencils. I’m thrilled to find a

framed photo on the desk of Ge-ge and me standing in a meadow. Papa posed
us for that rare shot. I’m holding out a four-leaf clover to him, and he has one
arm around me. With our bob cuts (before I grew out mine and Ge-ge cut his),

round cheeks, pointed chins, and big grins, we’re a picture of sibling love. It’s
funny because the snapshot was taken right after a huge fight.

It takes me less than a minute to fish out the diary and read the latest
entry plus a few earlier ones. I discover the reason for his distraction: someone
named Jocelyn. He’s written pages and pages about her. I carefully put the

leather-bound notebook back in its place and store the information in my head
for future ammunition.

Now that I’m alone at home—except for the amah, who doesn’t count—

I think this might be a good time for me to try out the bath. Why not? If I

inaugurate the tub, we might find a way to resume our tradition. I don’t know
how it’ll work, but surely there must a way for us both to fit in. If I don’t try it

myself at least, I’ll never know. So I fill up the tub, get undressed, and—it

suddenly hits me that there’s no separate area to wash yourself before getting

into the bathtub. Of course. I remember Maureen telling me this. Unless you

use the shower in the tub, you have to wash where you soak.

I grimace and slide down the porcelain slope. It feels so different to my

bare skin than the warm wood of our Japanese ofuro. And of course, there’s no

way for the water to come up to my neck if I sit with my knees drawn up. In
this accursed tub, my best effort ends in me sprawled on my back, legs

stretched out awkwardly in front. Why doesn’t everyone use Japanese tubs?

As I slather myself, neck to feet with the sandalwood soap the amah bought,
I’m suddenly seized by the odd notion that my legs have been altered. I lift

one leg, then the other. I inspect them with the diligence Sherlock Holmes
brings to a crime scene. I come away clueless. Except for the scar on my right
knee where I skinned myself, my legs are, as always, perfectly smooth, and

they’re undoubtedly mine. But are the thighs fuller? Rounder? If only I can
ask Mama. Or Ge-ge.

I’m rinsing myself off when I hear the chime of the elevator. Loud
voices ring through the corridor outside, followed by the distinct creak of our
front door opening.

I freeze. Besides Ge-ge, I think I hear three different boys. One of them I
recognize as the squishy creep. I tense up when footsteps approach the

bathroom, then exhale in relief when they veer away. Better get back to my

room fast. Just as I step out of the tub and reach for the towel, the door to the

bathroom barges open without warning.

The boy I detest stands only a few feet from me, his marshmallow

mouth open, gaping at me. Shame, shock, rage, and fear course through my

body. For a few moments, I can’t move, I can’t breathe. Everything goes slow-

motion like a baseball game replay. Just as suddenly, it resumes normal speed.

I shriek and duck back into the tub, banging my legs against the faucet. The

boy takes a few stumbling steps towards me. I throw the bar of soap at him.

The commotion brings Ge-ge running to the bathroom. “Hey!” He

sounds perplexed. “What’s going on?”

“I…uh…just needed to,” the intruder stammers, backing out of the

bathroom.

As soon as he’s gone, I lock the door, pull my dress over my still-wet
body, rush back to my room where I bury myself under the comforter and

refuse to come out long after the boys have departed, refuse to answer when
the amah raps on the door announcing supper. I’m mortified. Why did I forget
to lock the door? I try my best to shove the image of the boy’s leering face out

of my mind, but with little success. The more I try, the more the sequence of
unfortunate events loop around in my mind. Why did Ge-ge come back so

soon? Why can’t he tell me he’s bringing friends over? Why doesn’t anyone
ever tell me anything?
Eventually, I drift off to sleep.

***
As a weekend project, I decide to write a long letter to Papa. I can’t

write to Mama because I can’t write in Chinese, the only language she can

read. Writing in Japanese is laborious for me. I can write in English so much

better and faster. Can’t remember how to write those pesky kanji character,
have to constantly check the dictionary, as well as dip into a tattered copy of a

Japanese letter-writing manual to use as a template to construct my sentences.

It’s Mama’s but somehow ended up in a side pocket of my bag. This is what I

write:

“Dear Mama, Dear Papa, I hope that your business is prospering. How

is the weather in Tokyo? Ge-ge and I are doing well, thank you. I watched the

rain from our balcony yesterday, perhaps it is that season.

“When are you coming to Hong Kong? I must inform you that the amah
cooks the same food every day with unknown ingredients. She does not seem to

appreciate food groups. Neither Ge-ge nor I can eat anything she prepares.

“The nuns in my school remind me of creatures from outer space. You

would understand if you watched my favorite TV shows. Unfortunately, not all

of the shows are available for viewing here.

“Hong Kong seems to be woefully lacking in school buses. Walking up
the steep hill to go to school every day can be exhausting because of the heat

and humidity. I imagine it cannot be good for the heart. A magazine I read
said that one must be careful because such exertions can lead to a coronary

event.
 “However, I have good news. I just met a girl in school named Meg.
She’s very pretty. She is my new best friend. We talk everyday. Sometimes she

comes over and we dance together. Her skin is very silky. She smells good. She
has a large family so she says there is no room in her apartment. But they have

a piano that she plays very well.

“When do you think I might get a piano? My fingers feel lonely. I’m

afraid I might forget all my songs.

“Do you remember the serialized manga I used to read? I miss them

very much. They were just about to reveal who the masked man is when I had

to leave Japan. I’d like to know who he is. Could you please send me the back

issues in addition to the current one? Thank you.”

The letter strikes me as stiff and formal, not at all the way I’d write in

English, but it’s taken me all day to compose it. It will have to do. I drop it off

at the post office.

A week later, Papa arranges to have a taxi take Ge-ge and me to school
every day.

“You’re such a wimp,” Ge-ge scoffs when I tell him about my letter, but

he doesn’t turn down the rides.

The next weekend, Miss Wong arrives to take us to a Japanese restaurant

where we gorge ourselves on shrimp tempura, chicken-and-egg rice bowl, and

pot-cooked noodles.
“Piggy,” Ken taunts as I stuff myself. “Oink, oink.”

I’m too busy eating to retort.

A week after that, I receive a dozen issues of manga in the mail. Ge-ge

catches me reading on my bed belly down and straddles my back.

 “Hey little twerp, still reading kids’ comics?” He grabs my ponytail. He
jumps off before I can roll over and squash him.

I find him later, curled up on the living room couch, thumbing through
the comic books, chuckling as he turns the pages. I pounce on him, and we

wrestle until the amah emerges from her room, clicking her tongue in

disapproval and yelling some words in Cantonese.

Still no piano.
In his letter, Papa writes one word: Wait.

Meg and I talk on the phone every day as soon as we get home from

school. She slips out to visit me when she can. She lives far away in Kowloon,

and her parents don’t want her traveling by herself. I went to her home once.

The distance and the squalor of the neighborhoods I passed through depressed

me.

The first time Meg comes over, I’m really excited. I wait for her at the

door. She nearly crashes into Ge-ge at the entryway just as he’s leaving with
his gang of friends.

“Wait, Ge-ge, I want you to meet Meg.” I grab him by the arm. “Meg,

this is my older brother.”

Ge-ge solemnly shakes Meg’s hand. She giggles. I’ve never seen him

shake hands with anyone before.

When he leaves, Meg says, “Your brother’s a cutie.”
“Really?” I’m incredulous.

“Ummmm, hmmm, very nice mouth.” She winks. “You look like him.
Nice eyes. Sexy mouth.” She pulls my face towards her and pretends kisses

me.
 “Yuck.” I slap her on the arm, and we’re overtaken by another fit of
giggles.

Broom in hand, the amah shuffles into the living room, glances at us,
then retreats back into her room, shaking her head.

***

“You kids been good?”

I’m thrilled to hear Papa’s voice, gravelly from the pipe he smokes
everyday. It’s getting close to a year since our move to Hong Kong.

“Papa, when….”That’s all I manage to squeak out before Ge-ge grabs

the phone and completes the question burning on my tongue.

“When are you coming to Hong Kong?” As usual, Ge-ge holds out the

receiver so both he and I can hear Papa speak.

“Have you been taking good care of your little sister?”

“Doing my best,” my brother answers, with a sigh and a fist-swipe of his

nostrils.
“Papa, listen, Papa, Ge-ge never….” My head has reached Ge-ge’s chin

—just the right height for yelling into the receiver—but he bops me hard.

“I told you before that I expect you to be in charge,” Papa continues. “In
our absence, you’re responsible for your sister’s well-being.”

“Yes, Pa, I understand.” He yanks and twirls a strand of tightly curled

hair above his brows. I gesture at him to hand me the phone, but he bats my
fingers aside.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my pleated skirt.

“Son, listen carefully.”

I brace myself for bad news. I concentrate on the sleeve of my brother’s

blue-and-white checked shirt.
“I realize it’s taken longer than expected, but your Mama and I have

been working extra hard, and we were finally able to resolve the problem at
the office here. We’ve sold the house and—”

“Yaaaaayy!” I yell and jump; Ge-ge is frozen.

“—your mother and I will be coming to Hong Kong in a month’s time.

We’ll let you know the exact date of our arrival as soon as we’ve booked our
flight.”

“You happy not-happy?” It’s Mama’s voice, vibrating with excitement

the way Foo-foo’s tail shimmied whenever I offered her a treat. “Your Papa

and I, we see you soon.”

I’m in such a state of tumult I have to step out on the balcony to simmer

down. The best thing about this condo is the view. The sun is beginning to

sink; it’s light enough to see the boat people down below washing rice and

vegetables in their pots. They clean, eat, and sleep on their tiny boats that are
less than ten feet long. I’ve never encountered poverty like that in Tokyo. I

feel sorry for the boat people, I don’t know how they can live like that. I’m

lucky, I know, and try my best to conjure up feelings of gratitude, especially

now that Mama and Papa are coming. What rises up instead is an odd mixture

of excitement and grief, like when I add too much water to Chinese
calligraphy ink and the letters turn smudge-gray on white. I’m both happy and
not happy at the same time. I’ve been holding out hope that life in Hong Kong

is just temporary, that Papa’s business will force us back to Japan, and we can
resume our old life. Now I know it won’t happen. Our house is sold. I’m never

going to get my old life back.

 I hear the door to the balcony slide open and turn around. My brother.
He grabs my ponytail.

“Ow.” I try to hit him, but I miss and swat the air instead.
“Hey, little snot face, think it’s time you washed up.” He sniffs my head

and neck, and I squeal. “Want to try taking an ofuro together, Mei-mei?”

“Our ritual?” I feel a surge of joy, followed by a swift letdown as I

visualize the bathroom. “But the tub’s not big enough, is it?”
He scratches his head. “Might be a tight squeeze. But I think we’ll

manage if we don’t both lie down in it. We can just sit up.” He seizes a curly

strand of hair from his forehead and pulls it straight.

“Deal!” It’s got to work out if we try. I prance to my room. Not

bothering to shut the door, I peel off my blouse. Ge-ge heads to his bedroom to

get undressed. He leaves the door open as always.

The bath water is all ready. Bath towel wrapped snugly around me, I’m

about to step into the bathroom when the amah appears out of nowhere and
blocks my way. She shakes her head, clucks her tongue, and brushes her cheek

with her finger meaning shame, shame, shame.

I groan inwardly and shake my head back at her. I want to explain to her
that it’s our tradition, but how can I make her understand? Mama told me that

the Chinese are much more skittish about nudity than the Japanese. I don’t
care.
I try pleading my case with my eyes but the amah continues to utter

disapproving noises with her tongue.

Just then, Ge-ge saunters over, a towel around his waist.

“The bath water’s getting cold,” I grumble, pointing at the amah with
my chin.
He shrugs. Sidestepping the aghast amah, he tramps into the bathroom. I

follow him in. Ignoring the piercing cries of outrage, we slam the door shut
and plunge into the bathtub.

It’s a tight fit.

The tub is neither long enough nor wide enough for both of us to stretch

our bodies. It wasn’t going to be deep enough to soak; we already knew that.
But it’s unexpectedly awkward. The best we can do is to sit in a half squat on

our haunches, careful not to tangle each other up. As I try to lower myself into

the water, I half skid on the slippery porcelain slope and nearly skin my elbow.

I end up leaning into the faucet, which digs into my left shoulder blade.

Ignoring the pain, I ramble on like I always do. First, I tell him all about

Meg. But I get no response. So I switch to a story I make up on the spot. “See,

Ge-ge, there’s this creature from the swamps.…”

Silence.
Why is he so quiet? All hear is the water lapping at my stomach, belly-

button level. I feel Ge-ge shift his weight.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eyes and notice that he’s not
making any effort to wash himself.

Something else is odd. His cheeks are turning the shade of ripe
tomatoes. I vaguely wonder if the water is too hot, but it feels lukewarm to me.
And then I notice.

He’s staring.
At me.

As if he’s never seen me before. My heart flutters. What’s going on? I

follow his gaze. It’s fastened on my breasts.
I catch my breath.

Months ago, I think, I asked Ge-ge, “Why do you think it hurts when I
touch my chest?”

“You’re just a wimp,” he scoffed. “I never have problems like that. You

need to train yourself. Pound your chest with your fists, that should do the

trick.”
I tried it once, then decided to ignore his advice.

It shouldn’t be a complete surprise that I’d sprouted breasts, real ones.

It’s not as if I didn’t notice them, but I didn’t. I was both aware and not aware.

And there’s something else that I knew and not-knew. My brother. The

changes in his body. Ge-ge seems a shade older than I remember. His crew cut

is growing out. His chest has lost its padding of fat; it looks more like an

inverted triangle. His legs are muscular and covered with coarse hair.

When I allow myself to register these changes, a quiver of alarm shoots

through me.

But what’s most disquieting is between his legs, the thing we used to

call o-chinchin when we were kids. “O” is the honorific we gleefully slapped
on the dangling appendage, a source of endless mirth. Back then, Ge-ge and

his friends had a running gag about it. I joined in. One day I repeated the joke
in front of our houseguests and Mama hissed, “You wait, I axe your head!”
So why do I feel embarrassed now?

I fight a rising panic similar to what I felt at the sento when I couldn’t
find my brother. Except that he’s right here, right in front of me in plain sight.

Except that it’s not Ge-ge, not really. It’s him, but not him.
 I’m in a daze as I rise up on my feet. Carefully, I cover my breasts with
my arms. Ever so deliberately, I swing one leg, then the other, over the tub. I

pad to the door. I hear the bath water sloshing behind me, then the slop of feet
on tiled floor. I pick up speed. I pluck the bath towel off the floor; with my

hand still wet, I grasp the doorknob. It slips and slides. I hold my breath. The

door opens. At last.

I catch a glimpse of the amah standing at the end of the corridor, shaking
her head. Ignoring her, I head to my room. I can hear my brother make his way

to his room. I can sense every move he makes.

Without uttering a word, I shut my bedroom door. Without a word, I

lock the door. I hear Ge-ge doing the same. The door slams and locks. I didn’t

notice before how everything echoes.

I hurl myself on the bed. Even though it’s warm, I bury myself under the

comforter, covering my head. I shut my eyes. My pillow is damp. With the

door completely closed, the room is dark. Light from the harbor skitters across
my closed eyelids.

Unable to sleep, I scoot up, turn on the low wattage lamp, pull out some

note paper and a pencil and begin to write a story about a cat named Saki who
loved to bathe. The Japanese kanji for Saki means to bloom. I’m pleased with

myself for remembering that.

“Saki was a black cat, blacker than the darkest night. She had a tail that
went crooked when the atomic bomb blasted half a world away. Saki was a

black cat, completely black, save for a lightning streak of white across her
belly. Only when she bathed did anyone ever see her sliver of white fur.

“Saki loved to bathe. And she had a bathtub built for four.”
 Scratch that.
“…two.”

Scratch that too.

“…one.”

“And she had a bathtub built for one.”

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