Soy Sauce for Beginners (16 page)

Ba loved the idea, just as I knew he’d love any idea that involved me taking on more responsibility at Lin’s. My uncle, however, balked. He argued that the trip was a waste of money, that it would take much more than a trade show to convince American consumers to buy our premium sauces.

In the end, however, Uncle Robert agreed to send me to the show—mostly, I guessed, because he realized he’d have a better chance of changing Ba’s mind about Cal while I was gone.

Only Frankie remained skeptical.

Later that day, she pulled me in her office. “Have you thought this through? Are you sure you’re ready to see him?”

“Who?” I asked, hedging for time. The cardboard boxes of documents stacked high in the corner lurked like an unwanted guest.

She rolled her eyes.

“You mean Paul?” I said.

She blew a puff of air through her lips to show her exasperation. “Gretch, what are you doing?”

I said I didn’t know what she meant.

“James told Pierre you’re over at his place almost every night.”

“You and your crew must really be hurting for things to talk about,” I said, secretly flattered that James was discussing me with his friends. I wondered what else he’d told Pierre.

She ignored me. “I’m serious.”

“Frankie,” I said. “I’m going to a trade show. I need to start looking for an apartment in San Francisco. That’s all there is to it. It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s it?” she asked, her vehemence catching me off guard. Before I could respond, she said, “If this thing with James is so casual”—how she’d arrived at that conclusion I didn’t get a chance to ask—“why do you blow off all your friends to be with him?”

Her long-lashed brown eyes were the eyes of my old college roommate, the girl who’d never had a boyfriend, the girl who couldn’t get a date. “Okay,” I said. “This isn’t about me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

I said, “I’m sorry nothing’s changed for you. I’m sorry you came all this way only to remain single. You get asked out all the time. What are you afraid of?”

Frankie wrapped her arms around herself like she’d suddenly grown cold. When she spoke her voice was strained. “This has nothing to do with that.”

“Oh really?” I asked, triumphant. “What’s it about then? Go on, tell me.”

She fixed her gaze on me, and I felt my bravado fade.

“Fine,” she said. “Moving back to San Francisco is a mistake. He’ll break your heart all over again.”

Heat spread through my chest like a stain. I said, “You may recall that I have a master’s program to complete.”

Her face softened. “Look,” she said, “I just—”

I cut her off. “No. You listen to me. I’m going back to San Francisco because that’s my home now. You don’t have a family like mine. You don’t understand.”

“So, you admit it,” she said, her voice rising. “You’re running away.”

I slapped a palm on the table. A box of paperclips spilled on the floor. “Aren’t you doing the same thing? Isn’t that why you’re here, halfway across the world? To escape all the people who know you used to be fat?”

Abruptly she bent over to retrieve the paperclips, one by one.

“Frankie,” I said, but she didn’t get up.

Even though Frankie was from Fresno, three hours away from Stanford, I’d been to her home only once, when we’d stopped to see her mother on our way to Los Angeles for spring break. Frankie’s mom was tall and wide. Beneath her loose cotton housedress, she was soft and slouchy, the way Frankie used to be. Her mom served us grilled cheese sandwiches made with pre-sliced white bread and tomato soup from a can. After less than an hour, Frankie said we had to get going to avoid traffic, and her mom sent us off with a bag of marshmallows and a brave smile. In the car, Frankie said quietly, “Thanks. I’m sorry we had to do that.” “You’re most welcome,” I said brightly, unsure of what else to add.

I knew how I must have seemed to Frankie: a spoiled, childish girl who took her family and friends for granted.

Frankie straightened and released a handful of paperclips on her desk. She dropped her palm to her lap with a defeated slap. “I guess we’re both running away,” she said.

I wanted to acknowledge that my denial was more serious than hers—I could at least give her that. But she closed her eyes, leaned her head against the back of her chair and said, “Can you really imagine spending the rest of your life in San Francisco?”

I was about to answer, but she continued, “Because sometimes I think I could do that here.”

Her confessional tone surprised me. All my adult life I’d assumed I would settle in America, and yet Frankie’s reservations made me backtrack. I couldn’t recall if there was a point when I’d actually made my decision, or if I’d simply always known, and for the first time the distinction mattered.

“Really?” I asked. “Here? In tiny, claustrophobic Singapore?”

She said, “Isn’t it crazy? I can’t get over how crazy it sounds.”

It was mid-September, and outside the window, along these hallways, presumably right here in the room, hungry ghosts roamed, transforming our earthly world into their own vast playground.

Soon, the festival would be over. The ghosts would return to the underworld, where they would remain, neglected by their descendants, until the following year. I did not believe in ghosts, I did not believe in life after death, but still I imagined Ahkong, trim in his short-sleeved shirt and tie, floating among us. His sons, they were not speaking; his grandson would admit no wrongs; his granddaughter prepared, once again, to flee. And in the meantime, she hid and ducked and looked away, in the hopes that by refusing to see the problems, she could absolve herself of blame.

12

N
OT LONG AFTER LAUNCHED
my campaign to attend the trade show, on a night when James said he was too wiped out to see me, I went to my parents’ bathroom in search of a Band-Aid, reached for Ma’s toothbrush mug to get a drink of water, and caught a whiff of gin.

She insisted I was overreacting. It had only been a few sips. She’d needed a little help falling asleep. I was reading too much into the mug.

Each of her excuses threatened to send me crashing to my knees. My head was too heavy to hold up; I couldn’t find my balance. I turned to Ba, but he was as stunned as I was.

Ma squared her shoulders. “One little slip-up can’t invalidate all the progress I’ve made. I’m doing so much better, you both said so yourselves.”

I moved around her and threw open the doors of the medicine cabinet.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.

I charged around the bathroom, opening cabinets and drawers, and then I went in the bedroom and did the same.

“Stop,” she screamed. “Stop it right now.”

My father followed helplessly behind her.

There were bottles everywhere, some empty, some not: nestled among face creams and ointments, hidden in shoeboxes, wrapped in silk scarves.

“You made me do this,” Ma said. “You forced this upon me.”

I dragged my father from the room. “Please,” I said, “we have to.”

At first Ba closed his eyes and shook his head so abruptly it was almost a shudder. But then he whispered, “Okay.”

His capitulation was so sudden, so complete, that if I’d had any lingering doubts before, I knew then, unequivocally, that all three of us were lost.

Later, I couldn’t stop thinking about the series of events that had led me to Ma’s bathroom: the razor that slipped from my soapy fingers, the empty Band-Aid box in my own dresser drawer. Was it really thirst or was it a familiar tingling in my nostrils that made me reach for that mug?

The Light on Life Rehabilitation Center was located on the northern tip of the island. During the entire drive over, Ma was on her best behavior. She was rational, composed.

She argued that she deserved another chance. “You’ve seen the statistics. These things rarely work the first time around.”

The more sense she made, the tenser I grew.

When we arrived at the center, we were greeted by a series of picturesque Balinese open-air houses, lined with hibiscus bushes bursting with riotous, saucer-sized blooms. Eager to show how reasonable she was, Ma submitted to a medical examination, while Ba and I met with the director of the center, a longhaired, deeply tanned Australian, who looked more like a surf instructor or a river-rafting guide. He told us Light on Life practiced a 12-step-style program with a “holistic, secular twist.”

“We’re here to help our clients meet their goals, whatever that may mean,” he said.

A look of mild terror settled on my father’s face.

The director continued. “A client’s goal could be abstinence. It could be drinking in moderation. We have no hard and fast rules.”

He said other things I didn’t register; I kept losing myself in the movement of his lips and teeth. Unlike Ba, I felt strangely calm. What mattered most was that Ma was out of the house with all of its hiding places, and in the hands of people more capable than myself.

“How do we check her in?” I asked.

When the meeting was over, we went to see Ma. Arms akimbo, chin raised, she stood in the center of the small, spare bedroom that would be her home for the next twenty-one days. They’d put her in an oversized white spa robe with Light on Life embroidered across its upper-right side. On Ma’s tiny frame, the words sat awkwardly over her diaphragm and the robe’s hem brushed her ankles.

“This whole thing is absurd. Take me home.” She knew we would not leave her here against her will.

I waited for my father to say something wise and comforting, but all he managed was, “I’m sorry, Ling.” He dropped his hands to his sides and hung his head. The thinning silver hair at the center of his crown revealed a swirl of pink scalp.

“Please, Ma, give it a try,” I said. “We all need help.” I nudged my father, willing him to back me up.

He said, “I don’t know what to do. Ling, tell me what you want me to do.”

She stood still as a statue in that too-large white robe. When she exhaled, her body receded into itself as though it wanted nothing more to do with us. Then she walked out on the tiny balcony, just large enough to fit a wooden folding chair.

“We love you,” I said. “We’ll be back tomorrow.” I stepped forward to hug my mother, but she slid shut the balcony door and did not look back.

I don’t know how long my father and I stood there, waiting for Ma to acknowledge us. When I finally faced him, he looked so stricken I knew I had to get him out of there.

I said, “She needs time to be alone. Tomorrow will be a better day.” I took his hand to lead him out, and his fingers clung to mine.

That first week, Ba and I visited Ma every day after work. We tried to engage her, recounting the latest news from Lin’s, but she ignored us, sometimes even leaving the room.

Afterward, Ba and I followed the winding flagstone path to the parking lot—one last brief stretch of amity before we got in our respective cars and went our separate ways.

Only once did Ba ask where I was going.

“To dinner,” I answered, my pulse leaping into double time. We’d never actually spoken about James.

“And when will you come home?”

The sun hung low in the sky and a cool breeze rustled the trees, but my face grew hot. I began to sweat. “I haven’t decided.”

Ba maintained the same brisk pace, and I’d never felt so happy to see my car come into view. “This is me,” I said dumbly. I pressed the button on my key to unlock the doors, and the car emitted a cheerful beep.

Ba stopped, blocking my path to the driver’s seat. “You’re never too old to make stupid decisions,” he said. “Look, I made the decision to take Ma to this place.”

It seemed I would once again narrowly avoid having to discuss James. “Come on, Ba. They told us the first few days would be the worst.”

He took a few steps back, giving me just enough room to squeeze past. “I want you to know, I don’t blame you. It’s my fault for listening.”

I didn’t try to defend myself. I didn’t even move. “Do you want me to come home?”

He was already walking away.

“I mean, right now?” I called after him.

He barely looked back; I couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“Do whatever you want,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

After that, Ba and I took turns visiting my mother.

On alternate nights, I left the office right at five to make the center’s visiting hours. Often I found my mother reading in her room with the balcony door ajar. I took this as a positive sign, even if she refused to look up from the pages. Perching on a folding chair across from her with a magazine of my own, I spent most of the time willing her to make eye contact, marveling at the energy it must have taken for her to so completely shut me out.

Her counselor assured me that this behavior was normal. Of course, initially, my mother would feel angry, betrayed. The counselor told me to picture a wave coming right at me. That was the urge to drink. In the moment the wave peaked, you were sure it would sweep you off your feet, engulf you, drown you. But if you braced yourself and faced it straight on, the wave would pass. You would emerge on the other side. “Try to understand what your mother is going through,” he said.

What I understood was this: as Ma worked to eliminate alcohol from her life, I was drinking more than ever. I’d become a permanent fixture at Chaplin’s, where I downed one vodka tonic after another, waiting for James to return my calls, making up excuses to avoid my friends.

“You’re a mess,” Kat said when I finally agreed to meet her for dinner at an Italian restaurant by her office. “I mean, I know things aren’t easy for you right now, but you are a mess.”

My hand shot up to my greasy, unwashed hair. I saw no point in primping if I wasn’t going to see James. I pressed my fingers to my eyelids and reveled for a moment in the darkness. “Thanks. And you wonder why I never want to come out.”

“I know exactly why you’re too busy to come out,” she said, her voice razor sharp. She stabbed her fork in a mound of linguine and twirled.

“Kat,” I said, “I really don’t need relationship advice right now.”

She finished chewing. “I was talking about your mother.”

We both knew this was a lie. “But since you brought it up,” I said, “we just checked my mother into rehab, and now she isn’t speaking to us.” I wasn’t entirely sure why I’d chosen this moment to reveal the news, or why my voice was filled with spite.

Kat clamped a hand over her mouth. “Gretch, I’m sorry. How are you and your dad holding up?”

I told her I was fine, and as far as I knew, he was fine, too. Everyone was doing just fine.

She set down her fork. “Why is it so impossible for us to have a conversation?”

I pushed away my plate, my appetite gone. “How can I tell you anything when all you do is judge me?”

“So now I’m not allowed to show concern?”

I said, “Why don’t you just say it? You think I’m a bad daughter. You think I choose men who treat me like shit.”

“I’m worried about you,” she said evenly. “You’re not a bad daughter.”

“Can you imagine what it’s like to lose your husband?”

“I’m trying to understand. Help me understand,” she said.

How could I tell her that even though Paul had cheated on me and left me, I would take him back? How could I explain why I clung to James? How could I say all this to Kat and expect her to feel anything but pity?

We ate quickly and paid the bill.

“Call me when you’re ready to talk,” Kat said, to which I said nothing at all.

Back at my parents’ house, I sliced open the cardboard box of books I needed to read or re-read before beginning my thesis semester in January. I emailed the same brave, lighthearted update to Marie, Andrea, and Jenny at the conservatory, reaching out to them for the first time since leaving San Francisco. Given Ma’s fragile state, I held off on planning my trip to the trade show. Still, I searched online apartment listings for studios and small one bedrooms with good light, wood floors, gas stoves. And even though I jumped each time James called, I spent more and more time day dreaming about Paul. I imagined running into him outside our old neighborhood coffee shop or at our favorite taqueria in the Mission or simply on the street somewhere in our city. “I didn’t realize you were back,” he would say, coming toward me with outstretched arms. Coolly, I would reply, “There’s no reason you would.”

Nights, I lay awake in bed, my mind racing through everything I needed to do before I left Singapore, and everything that awaited me in San Francisco. When sleep truly escaped me, I reached over to my nightstand, turned my metronome to forty, the slowest setting, and counted the steady clicks. Once the needle got going, all you had to do was keep time.

Halfway through Ma’s second week, I asked Frankie to come with me to the rehab center. I couldn’t bear the thought of spending another evening staring at my mother’s stony face, or over the balcony at the condo complex emerging slowly but surely through the distant treetops. I’d sipped endless Styrofoam cups of watered-down Lipton tea from the giant thermos in the waiting room. I was desperate. Frankie and Ma had met several times over the years, and had always enjoyed each other’s company.

“Gretch,” Frankie said, “I had no idea.”

I felt a pang of affection for Kat, who’d kept the news to herself. “So, you’ll come?”

Perhaps Frankie saw my invitation as a gesture of goodwill; perhaps she simply felt sorry for me. At any rate, she agreed to come.

After work, we took the Bukit Timah Expressway, passing the reservoirs and nature reserves in the very center of the island. Just east of the factory, just west of the central business district, the greenery was almost blindingly lush. When we stepped out of the car, the air was startling in its stillness, untainted by the whirring motors and ringing cell phones and low, electric drone that formed the backbone of this city.