Mandarin, because my grandmother complained that it was corrupting my Cantonese, their mother tongue. Even though I guzzle my glass of water, that sharp piece of irony remains lodged inside my throat.
“If I had this chance when I was your age,” Grace says, stroking Mochi, “I would have grabbed it.”
“You would have wanted to move during high school?” I ask Grace, noting that she goes quiet.
“Of course, she would have. How can you be so shortsighted? Jack and Cindy would move in a heartbeat,” says Wayne.
In my frustration, I drop my adoring little sister act. “Then they should.”
“Easy for you to say,” Wayne says, low and lethal.
My gaze falls to my lap where my hands are clutched over my CD in a tight, punishing ball. Sink or swim, those are your choices in an avalanche. Do the breast stroke and break to the surface fast, otherwise you risk getting sucked down and buried in snow the consistency of cement. The problem is, just the way I felt alone in the benched cliff at Whistler, I’m a girl overboard, and no one’s riding to my rescue. Mama’s muted “Wayne” sounds more weary than warning. Still, he reacts like his younger-but-not-wiser stepmother has ripped into him. His chair scrapes across the hardwood floor, and he slams the door behind him so that I hear the “bitch” in its echo, loud and clear.
“Can’t I just stay with Bao-mu?” I ask Mama softly.
Mama plays with her enormous jade pendant, the one she never takes off, the one that Grace snickers is so apropos. After all, a jade is an adulteress, no? Foreboding expands balloon-like in my belly until I can’t breathe as Mama swings the pendant from side to side, hypnotically. Finally, matter-of-factly, she says, “Bao-mu’s granddaughter is having a baby. She’s moving to California to take care of her.”
“What?”
“Excuse me,” she corrects me before answering, “Any day now.”
“For good?”
“For good.” As if she has just informed me of nothing more important than a forecast of rain, Mama skates one of her youth-enhancing vitamins around her plate, unconcerned.
A life without Bao-mu is far worse than a life in Hong Kong. She has been the one constant in my home since I can remember. Other nannies have come and gone, a blur of girls who hauled me around since driving is the one thing that Bao-mu is afraid to do. At my first sniffle, Mama breathes out impatiently. So I blink away my tears.
“Bao-mu’s too old to take care of a baby” is my last-ditch protest, and I ignore Grace’s loud sniff that insinuates I’m infantile myself.
“It’s her decision.” Mama busies herself with a piece of imaginary lint on her jacket, flicking it off like it’s Bao-mu, gone in a moment. “She gave me her notice.”
“When?” I demand.
“A few weeks ago.”
A few weeks ago. My life for the last month has been nothing but glittering surface hoar, that gorgeous layer of downy snow that slides once anything breaks through it. Which just goes to show that beauty is as deceptive as it is dangerous.
The most beautiful woman in the room now shakes her head at me, her long, glossy hair gleaming under the overhead lights. “Close your mouth, Syrah. It’s unbecoming.” Mama picks up another vitamin. “We’ll live in Hong Kong during the school year only. Summers in China are too hot and humid.” Her thin body shudders delicately as if the mere thought of humidity is melting her thick surface hoar of makeup. A vitamin disappears between her red-lacquered lips.
“Summers?” I repeat numbly.
“One? Two?” Mama answers, throwing her hands up, a carefree girl celebrating Hong Kong, an adventure we’ve all been waiting for. “Your father wants to leave it open-ended.”
This time it’s Grace who sputters in surprise, “He does?”
I don’t blame her. Our dad has been known to play a single game of Go, an ancient strategy game, for two years, plotting his moves as if he were Sun-Tzu, his hero of a
“If I had this chance when I was your age,” Grace says, stroking Mochi, “I would have grabbed it.”
“You would have wanted to move during high school?” I ask Grace, noting that she goes quiet.
“Of course, she would have. How can you be so shortsighted? Jack and Cindy would move in a heartbeat,” says Wayne.
In my frustration, I drop my adoring little sister act. “Then they should.”
“Easy for you to say,” Wayne says, low and lethal.
My gaze falls to my lap where my hands are clutched over my CD in a tight, punishing ball. Sink or swim, those are your choices in an avalanche. Do the breast stroke and break to the surface fast, otherwise you risk getting sucked down and buried in snow the consistency of cement. The problem is, just the way I felt alone in the benched cliff at Whistler, I’m a girl overboard, and no one’s riding to my rescue. Mama’s muted “Wayne” sounds more weary than warning. Still, he reacts like his younger-but-not-wiser stepmother has ripped into him. His chair scrapes across the hardwood floor, and he slams the door behind him so that I hear the “bitch” in its echo, loud and clear.
“Can’t I just stay with Bao-mu?” I ask Mama softly.
Mama plays with her enormous jade pendant, the one she never takes off, the one that Grace snickers is so apropos. After all, a jade is an adulteress, no? Foreboding expands balloon-like in my belly until I can’t breathe as Mama swings the pendant from side to side, hypnotically. Finally, matter-of-factly, she says, “Bao-mu’s granddaughter is having a baby. She’s moving to California to take care of her.”
“What?”
“Excuse me,” she corrects me before answering, “Any day now.”
“For good?”
“For good.” As if she has just informed me of nothing more important than a forecast of rain, Mama skates one of her youth-enhancing vitamins around her plate, unconcerned.
A life without Bao-mu is far worse than a life in Hong Kong. She has been the one constant in my home since I can remember. Other nannies have come and gone, a blur of girls who hauled me around since driving is the one thing that Bao-mu is afraid to do. At my first sniffle, Mama breathes out impatiently. So I blink away my tears.
“Bao-mu’s too old to take care of a baby” is my last-ditch protest, and I ignore Grace’s loud sniff that insinuates I’m infantile myself.
“It’s her decision.” Mama busies herself with a piece of imaginary lint on her jacket, flicking it off like it’s Bao-mu, gone in a moment. “She gave me her notice.”
“When?” I demand.
“A few weeks ago.”
A few weeks ago. My life for the last month has been nothing but glittering surface hoar, that gorgeous layer of downy snow that slides once anything breaks through it. Which just goes to show that beauty is as deceptive as it is dangerous.
The most beautiful woman in the room now shakes her head at me, her long, glossy hair gleaming under the overhead lights. “Close your mouth, Syrah. It’s unbecoming.” Mama picks up another vitamin. “We’ll live in Hong Kong during the school year only. Summers in China are too hot and humid.” Her thin body shudders delicately as if the mere thought of humidity is melting her thick surface hoar of makeup. A vitamin disappears between her red-lacquered lips.
“Summers?” I repeat numbly.
“One? Two?” Mama answers, throwing her hands up, a carefree girl celebrating Hong Kong, an adventure we’ve all been waiting for. “Your father wants to leave it open-ended.”
This time it’s Grace who sputters in surprise, “He does?”
I don’t blame her. Our dad has been known to play a single game of Go, an ancient strategy game, for two years, plotting his moves as if he were Sun-Tzu, his hero of a
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