Soy Sauce for Beginners Read online

  “This may be hard for you to fathom,” she said, “but I actually want to do well at this job.” She stood there, so full of self-righteousness, I couldn’t help myself.

  “Frankie,” I said, “look around. Do you think anyone here really cares what you do?”

  Her jaw dropped, and then she compressed her lips and shook her head. “Send it to me first thing in the morning,” she said and whirled around.

  I turned back to my computer, determined not to let her ruin my good mood. At five o’clock sharp, I went home to get ready for my date.

  In the end, my efforts were wasted. As I was pulling out of my parents’ driveway, James called. He said he was exhausted from another interminable day, so would I mind coming straight to his condo? Oh, and picking up dinner on the way?

  I could have told him no. I could have slammed on the brakes and gone right back inside. But I did no such thing. I did everything he requested, and when he asked me to sleep over, I did that, too. Seeing James in any capacity was preferable to not seeing him at all. What’s more, I needed to get out of my parents’ home, away from my father’s probing, disappointed gaze.

  Ba had already paid the deposit to the conservatory; he knew I’d made up my mind. Still, each time I looked in his face, I saw all the ways I was letting him down. The first time I’d left, Cal had stepped in to fill my place. This time, no one would.

  My guilt grew and metastasized, and soon I was skipping meals at home. I canceled Ma’s piano lessons, thankful she was doing better and no longer needed constant supervision. I raced to James’s condo every time he called. I didn’t know what I’d done to increase my appeal, but suddenly he wanted to see me all the time. Sometimes I brought takeout; sometimes James and I grabbed a quick dinner at one of the small, mediocre eateries by his condo. Our conversations were pleasant yet hollow, much like the sex.

  As I tiptoed through the house to grab a fresh change of clothes, as I drove the now-familiar route back and forth from James’s, as my father continued to watch me without saying a word, the unrelenting tropical sun bore down upon me day after day. The same sun that nourished our soybeans and broke them down into our prized golden brew only sapped my strength. I felt doomed to spend the next four months treading water, running in place, accomplishing nothing.

  Two weeks into the search for American distributors interested in our premium sauce, Frankie informed me that Cal needed her help on his project. She set a large pile of documents on my desk. “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked. “Nobody cares what I do around here, anyway.”

  Once she was gone, I dropped the entire pile in my trash can, and then immediately crouched beneath my desk and lifted the papers out, hoping no one had seen me do it.

  Amid those papers, a glossy bright green pamphlet caught my eye. How it had landed in Frankie’s pile, I didn’t know. The pamphlet promoted the Fourth Annual International Natural Foods Trade Show, which would take place the following month in San Francisco. I read through the entire pamphlet, and then flipped back to the beginning and read through it once more.

  The trade show was to be held at a gigantic convention complex next to the Yerba Buena Gardens, a five-acre sanctuary plopped down in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. I kicked off my loafers beneath my desk, imagining the freshly trimmed grass, rough and cool, against the soles of my feet.

  I was still studying the pamphlet when Shuting stopped by to deliver office supplies. “They send that every year,” she said. “We never go.”

  “Thanks,” I said distractedly. I slipped my feet back in my shoes.

  By the end of the day, I’d written a proposal for why the Fourth Annual International Natural Foods Trade Show was the perfect place to introduce Lin’s premium soy sauce to America, and why I would be the perfect person to take it there. Yes, a lot more work needed to be done before we’d be able to export our premium sauces on a large scale. Yes, we needed a more comprehensive understanding of the American market. But we had to start somewhere, and what better way to build contacts and explore options, especially with the Mama Poon deal underway.

  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

  NOT LONG AFTER I 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.”