Excerpt from My, a novel:
Lowering her head blocks yelling; tipping bangs hides her disfiguration; shaded eyes help retain her dreams. My picks up a pile of dumpling wrappers and starts to fold-tuck-pinch. Papa takes his place at the table in front of his daughter, humming a tune. My changes pace to match his rhythm, relieving the tedium. His humming pushes away the blackened pots, box containers, soy sauce barrels, and broken vegetable crates stacked along Double Happy’s walls, giving her room to breathe. Every patiently logged hour in Double Happy’s kitchen brings her one step closer to her fantasy life. Their meditative fold-tuck-pinch ends at the dinner rush. Sandwiched between a hot stove and prep tables, My is knocked around by a jovial line cook’s erratic arm swings and jolted by her step mother’s rapid-fire orders. The tile walls condense suffocating steam onto her forehead, and flying oil pricks her arm.
The last customer leaves carrying his boxed meal. My unwraps her apron and wipes her brow, dripping from a fit of activity. She closes Double Happy’s door, expelling hot frustration into the cool night air. The apartment red stairs feel like a mountain tonight, stopping at the landing to catch her breath. The aunty spies, behind doors opposite each other, unclasp their peepholes.
My walks the boys to a school gymnasium for Saturday Wushu lessons. She drags her finger along short lockers in an unlit hallway towards a classroom. She chooses a folding chair near the door and squints to read the chalkboard: “Great Poets – Greek, Persian, Roman & Mongol.” She struggles to pay attention in class, while gray-haired men interrupt the instructor’s lecture at every sentence and challenge him. After class, the elderly learners file out and continue debating in the hallway, talking over themselves. My frantically scribbles.
“Do you have a question about the homework?” the instructor asks, zipping up a backpack. “It’s only four lines.”
She looks directly at his feet and shakes her head.
My collects the twin boys. Right lump chops the air in front of left lump, fighting all the way home. They will never settle down. She tosses them on the mattress and makes a bargain.
“If you take a long nap and be quiet and don’t bother papa, I’ll bring you ice cream.”
Right lump places a hand on his hip, preparing to negotiate, but left lump flips a comforter over his head and fakes snoring.
Lumps distract her, squirming and fidgeting. Unable to sleep, the boys list toys, games, and sneakers hoped for at their birthday party tomorrow. They jump up to release bladders and re-nestle into her sides. Anticipation she appreciates, swelling desire to tear open packages and finger frosting on a white cake. She calms them by describing her birthdays as a girl, stories lifted from fairy tale celebrations to exhaust their excitement. The twins fall asleep to her magical tales. My is haunted by thoughts of new mommy’s sharp rebuke on her last birthday: “Cake for babies! You old lady now.”
My stretches between lumps at daylight, twisted in the opposite direction from head to toe, and tickles them awake. The boys are fêted like an emperor’s heirs. New mommy sips tea and feeds the boys candy from a bowl, one treat at a time. She orders My downstairs to fetch more tea. Papa rests his bow against a chair and calls the boys to his feet, handing them each a red envelope containing twenty-dollar bills. His instructions are gracious: “Buy what you desire now. Save the rest for your next birthday.”
At night, My absorbs tumult from the lumps’ excited dreams. She sits up writing on a pad under a flashlight until morning. The clock alarm rings in counter-beat to sounds outside the open window. Her head is fuzzy and smoky from a late night trying to make words come alive on lined paper.
In the basement of the old fire station turned into a Buddhist temple turned into a classroom, she is re-thinking and re-writing. She sits at a student desk and reworks lines, grinding a pencil to stub. The poetry writing instructor calls on her. Hiding under bangs, she stands and recites:
“Hearts bewitched
lovers coax rhyme,
Chasing unbound
Sunsets evade time.”
Her voice cracks and stumbles. She sits down and ignores dutiful clapping. Throbbing, pumping, scratching, her dream figures claw to get out. She leaves class before the final reading, unable to hear anything but tin humming.